


Among the Wreck

by lady_deathangel



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Ableist Language, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Fallen Castiel, Frottage, Hand Jobs, Implied Torture, M/M, Mildly Dubious Consent, Oral Sex, Sexist Language, Temporary Character Death
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-15
Updated: 2013-05-15
Packaged: 2017-12-10 20:43:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 21
Words: 109,985
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/789971
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lady_deathangel/pseuds/lady_deathangel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The fate of the world has been decided and two human vessels are the key to the final battle that will trigger the apocalypse. Not content to leave anything up to destiny, Heaven takes matters into its own hands. But a simple assassination is complicated by the interference of one of their own, leaving the future in limbo and the angel Castiel to pay the ultimate price for his actions. </p><p>But what should be the end is only the beginning. The angel’s fall from grace crash lands him in the body of a young Jimmy Novak as his soul departs. The process leaves Castiel with no memories of his celestial past; he knows himself only as Jimmy Novak, a sickly child whose overnight recovery is nothing short of miraculous. But as Jimmy’s life starts anew, Dean Winchester’s has all but ended.</p><p>It’s under these circumstances that these two boys come together and forge a friendship that slowly develops into something more. But their path was never meant to be easy and fate eventually intercedes, thrusting them both into the roles they were always meant to play: the angel and the hunter. The Righteous Man and his Protector.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> This is finally making the move to AO3! I'm really excited to be posting this fic in its entirety here on the archive. As my proudest fandom achievement, this was definitely a long time coming.
> 
> More spoilery notes on warnings (please check those out if you have any questions or concerns) as well as thank yous can be found at the end. In the meantime, I truly hope you enjoy reading whether it's your first time or, dare I dream, your second.
> 
>  **EDIT** : I forgot to include a link to the text-only PDF available for download but, since it was brought to my attention that the art might be distracting for some, I'm fixing that now. So, want to download just the fic? [Click me!](http://www.mediafire.com/download/f43197zrt98mgl2/Among+the+Wreck.pdf)

  
  
 

  


 

Castiel arrives too late. He knows it as soon as he touches down, can already sense the archangel’s grace in the humid air.

“You didn’t come to interfere, I hope.”

For a split second it’s almost as if the voice is disembodied. Castiel’s so focused on his mission here that he doesn’t recognize where it’s coming from at first. It doesn’t help that the archangel’s grace is overwhelming from this proximity, making it almost impossible to distinguish the other member of the Host close by.

The angel isn’t so much standing guard outside of the ramshackle cabin as he is hovering nearby. It’s a bit of a surprise to see that he was the one chosen to embark on this mission when there are stronger soldiers or angels with more blind, stupid faith in Michael than they seem to have in their own Father for the archangel to have taken his pick from. Balthazar is a good many things, but he’s no fighter and he’s renowned for the reluctance that taints his ingrained obeisance.

Balthazar’s vessel is unfamiliar to Castiel, although he shares the same slight build and sandy-colored hair that the angel has always preferred. There is nothing but pure grace coiled within the human body that stands a few feet away, but Balthazar’s battle experience is minimal and Castiel isn’t even sure if his brother’s ever had to fight on this plane, before. Castiel knows that if comes down to it, he’ll have the upper-hand in a fight.

Castiel shifts his stance, ready to attack if need be, but Balthazar doesn’t move except to raise his eyebrows.

“So you _did_ come to interfere, then,” he says.

“I don’t want to fight you,” Castiel tells him.

Balthazar rolls his lips between his teeth in a distinctly un-angelic gesture and crosses his arms over his chest.

“But you will,” Balthazar says. “And much as I hate to admit it, I don’t like my chances if it comes to that.”

A crack of thunder shakes the foundations of the building in front of them with no lightning to precede it and no clouds to produce a storm. Castiel’s grace roils within his borrowed body, desperate to get inside and stop what’s happening.

“Then let me pass,” Castiel says.

It occurs to him as Balthazar takes the time to ponder Castiel’s request that perhaps there is no need for a soldier in this case. As much as Castiel loves his brother – and he does in more than just the cursory way in which he loves every member of the Host – he also knows that Balthazar can be frustrating and derives some amount of joy from talking his brethren in circles.

This isn’t a game Castiel has time for and he feels for the blade tucked up the sleeve of his vessel’s jacket, the metal and power of it cool and electric against the pads of his fingers.

“You’re already too late, you know,” Balthazar says, but he takes a casual step to the side as he speaks. “And you’re not going to like what you find when you go in there.”

If he expects to deter Castiel then he fails miserably in the task. This is Castiel’s choice, one that he made long before he even knew that it would lead him here.

“This is something I must do,” Castiel says.

Balthazar stares at him for a long moment and then rolls his shoulders in a shrug.

“Just make sure that if anyone asks, you tell them I put up a good fight.”

Balthazar takes the opportunity to run and Castiel can’t blame him for that. Michael doesn’t suffer failure lightly.

Castiel moves quickly to the front door; fear isn’t there to weight him down, but that’s less because Castiel’s that brave and more because he couldn’t experience the feeling even if he wanted to. He’s spurred on by an essence-deep conviction, instead, driven forward by the knowledge that in this Michael is wrong and Castiel is the only one who can stand against him, the only one who _will_.

The door is nearly blown off its hinges when Castiel shoves it open with his grace. The scene he walks in on is even worse than he’d imagined. For all of the wars that Castiel has witnessed, all of the blood that he and his brothers have shed, this is somehow different. Perhaps its Castiel’s own investment that changes things, but he believes there’s more to it than that. This is _wrong_ regardless of what Michael’s told everyone else.

Sam and Dean Winchester are tucked into a corner, the eldest with tears staining his cheeks, the youngest with pale skin, blood-spattered lips and clothing, and a heart that Castiel can hear beginning to beat at a sluggish, dying pace. Castiel takes an instinctive step forward, a well of protectiveness overflowing within his grace but a gruff, unfamiliar voice stops him short.

“Castiel,” Michael says.

Castiel tears his eyes away from the boys and looks over at the archangel. He looks strange in John Winchester’s skin, perhaps because Castiel has spent so long spying on this family that it seems like a violation to see one of them inhabited by another being.  
“What have you done?” Castiel demands, looking around the room.

Michael follows his gaze and shrugs. “I did what was required of me,” he says.”

How this could possibly be required of anyone, Castiel doesn’t know. There’s blood on John’s hands, his _son’s_ blood, and that little boy is going to die while they all watch.

“This isn’t right,” Castiel says.  
“Yes, it is,” Michael says, his voice laden with pity and self-righteousness. “You’re young and ignorant of many things, Brother. You just can’t see this for the strategic move that it is.”

“We aren’t at war.”

Michael simply smiles, small and condescending. “But we will be. And if you want for our side to win, the boy must die. He’ll be at peace, Castiel. His soul will find a place in Heaven and he won’t have to suffer. The rest will fall into place as it’s meant to.”

There is no way of knowing what will be and Castiel knows this just as the other members of the Host are supposed to know this. It’s the first lesson that Castiel remembers learning: the weight of humility. Only their Father is omniscient and omnipotent. They are his servants and therefore limited in their knowledge and their power. And yet Michael seems determined to challenge this truth, acting in their Father’s name but without – Castiel is _sure_ of it – their Father’s consent.

What Michael wants treads too close to blasphemy in much the same way that what Castiel wants edges him ever closer to a long, hard fall. He has considered that perhaps they’re both in the wrong, but at least Castiel is here to save lives instead of end them.

“The consequences of what you’re doing will be irreversible,” Castiel says, thinking of the kind of future a boy like Dean might have after watching his brother die in his own arms.

“That’s the entire point,” Michael tells him. “Now leave, Castiel. Your attempts to get in my way are futile and I’m tired of indulging them.”

A hitched sob comes from the corner. Castiel turns to see Dean with his face buried in Sam’s hair, shoulders shaking with the force of his tears. Something gives a vicious twist in the vicinity of Castiel’s chest and a massive wave of rage rises up fast enough to nearly knock him over.

“If it makes you feel any better,” Michael says, oblivious to Castiel’s emotional response, “the boy won’t remember a thing. To him this will all have been one terrible accident. A hazard of the job, if you will.”

Castiel’s fists clench at his sides. He wishes that he were anything other than a lowly soldier. He wishes, desperately, that he could take Michael on and have a chance of winning. As if he senses Castiel’s desire for retaliation, the archangel shakes his head slowly. They both know that Michael could rip Castiel apart with a thought. If they were to go head-to-head it would be no contest.

The boys, though, they might stand a chance. If nothing else, Castiel thinks that he’d rather die trying to save them then turn around and go back to a life of blind obedience.

“I won’t let you do this,” Castiel says.

Michael opens his mouth to reply, probably with more heretical talk about he’s only doing what’s right, what their Father has asked of him, but Castiel doesn’t want to hear it. He’s tired of it, of the same rhetoric resonating through the Host day in and day out, of excusing immorality in their Father’s name. These children are innocent and Castiel loves them. He shouldn’t – technically it’s not even possible given an angel’s limited capacity for such feeling – but he does. He has ever since he first overheard their prayers, Dean’s in the beginning and then Sam’s not long after.

It only takes a tiny moment for Michael to formulate whatever response he has on the tip of his tongue, but it’s enough time for Castiel to make his move. He’s kneeling in front of the boys before the archangel even knows what’s happened but there are mere seconds for him to act. Dean clutches Sam tighter and pushes himself further into the corner.

“I’m here to help,” Castiel says.

Dean looks up at him with eyes too heavy, guarded, and full of grief to belong to such a young child. Castiel doesn’t have time to wait but he pauses, let’s Dean make the choice to trust him. At the boy’s nod, Castiel reaches out. He can feel the heat from Dean’s forehead and the clammy chill of Sam’s skin brush the pads of his fingers, is almost close enough to get them away, when Sam’s body flies out of Dean’s arms and across the room.

The younger boy crashes through the cabin’s flimsy wall and sails out into the darkness. Castiel hears him land several feet away from the building with a soft thud.

“Sammy!” Dean yells.

He reaches out and pushes at Castiel’s shoulders.

“You said you would help so do it! _Please_!”

Dean’s voice is steeped in desperation and fear and no small amount of anger but even if he weren’t begging on his brother’s behalf, Castiel wouldn’t be able to refuse him. He recognizes that if they all make it through this, his new loyalties could prove a problem. There’s no time to worry about that, though; Michael’s only a couple of seconds ahead of Castiel, already standing over Sam’s body by the time he gets there.

Michael doesn’t lift his head when he says, “It’s too late. The boy’s dead.”

It’s not quite the truth. Castiel reaches out with his grace and senses that Sam’s almost beyond any help that Castiel can provide but he isn’t gone, not yet. If Castiel can get him away from here there’s still a chance; slim, yes, but Castiel’s entire existence sometimes relies on belief in miracles.

This time Castiel pushes himself faster and harder than he ever has in a human vessel. His grace pounds at the confines of skin and muscle and bone but Castiel needs the body in tact so he does his best to hold it together, splitting his focus between his borrowed form and Sam. Castiel manages to sneak past Michael just long enough to press two fingers to Sam’s forehead.

There’s a shout so loud it resembles a sonic boom more than anything human, and he can feel Michael’s grace tangle with his just as he and Sam disappear from the field outside of the cabin. Michael traps them all in that space between spaces, a vast expanse of nothingness that Castiel’s always traveled through too quickly to take notice of.

It’s pitch black and there’s no sound. Castiel can feel the weight of Sam’s body tucked against his own and the shackle-tight grip of a hand around one wrist, but this place is occupied by more than just human bodies. Michael’s grace is a physical _thing_ here, and the archangel wastes no time wielding it like a weapon. It spears through Castiel, pierces the flesh of his vessel and the threads of his own grace. And then it withdraws and does so again and again, until the physical body has been peeled away in strips and chunks.

Castiel has never felt more vulnerable or exposed and there are no words in his vast vocabulary to describe the depths of pain Michael’s left him in. He’s raw grace, now, and it hangs in shreds and tatters and ragged pieces around him. But Castiel can’t die here. He refuses.

Sam’s body gives one last shuddering breath and falls away, back to Dean and the cabin. All of the pieces of his grace shudder with remorse and guilt and then go quiet and still. There’s a pulsing flash of light, dim in comparison to what Castiel himself emits in his true form but still bright enough to chase away some of the darkness.

Michael reaches for it but the light shies away. It pulls itself into a tight orb and launches itself at Castiel, instead. There’s an explosion when it connects with Castiel’s grace, dazzling enough to illuminate every corner of this non-place.

Castiel reels on impact. A warmth surges through the connection, something pure and full of hope and love. There are other feelings that accompany it – loss, fear, confusion, all things Castiel’s never truly experience before this night – but there’s an overwhelming sense of _trust_ that overshadows it all.

It’s an amazing thing, touching a soul. Castiel’s only heard of what it feels like while eavesdropping on quiet, illicit whispers tip-toeing through the Host. His brothers and sisters had spoken of pure power and strength but this is incomparable to their murmured experiences.

Sam’s soul is familiar in a way Castiel can’t describe and it burrows into his grace seeking safety and shelter and offering strength in return. The soul attracts pieces of Castiel’s grace like magnets, unable to stitch them together but soothing the ache enough to allow them to escape. Castiel forces himself through the barrier of space and surges past Michael, his grace curled tight around the soul it carries.

They hit the physical plane with an impact that jars his grace so hard he can’t hold onto it. Pain spears him in a million different ways as his grace is ripped from him, Sam’s soul still tucked inside. There’s an infinitesimal shred left in him, barely enough to offer a small measure of comfort as he falls.

It’s all too quick and inexorably slow at the same time; anguish slams into him as he watches most of grace catapult off into the distance, the rest of him left to crash-land in a strange land. The feeling is indescribable, some roiling mess of foreign emotion that makes him wish he were dying.

He imagines this can’t be much different from death in a lot of ways – the pain and the fear and the inability to comprehend what’s waiting for him when he lands.

Of all the things he might have expected, this isn’t one of them. There’s a tug, light at first and then stronger until what’s left of him is all but sucked through the dark streets of an unknown town. There’s no use trying to fight this magnetic pull so he relaxes into it instead, allows himself to be dragged toward its source.

It originates from a very tiny, very thin body in a very large hospital bed. There’s too much pain for Castiel to take in all of the details of the room. He only has eyes for the boy with dark hair and pallid cheeks laid out on stark white sheets.

The monitor by the bed shrieks one monotonous beep and, as if prompted by the sound, that pull grows stronger, almost desperate. An orb of light, identical to Sam’s soul in appearance only, collects just above the boy’s chest. It pauses as Castiel is drawn toward the body. What’s left of him collides with the departing soul, another jarring impact that stings and pinches. He can feel traces of the boy’s soul, of _Jimmy Novak’s_ soul, stick to his grace as he slips into something that’s not quite a vessel and not quite a home.

The last thing Castiel remembers is the loud patter of feet outside, some shouting, and a painful, gasping breath before he’s overwhelmed by a consciousness that isn’t his. He’s too tired to fight it so he simply sinks, disappears, and chooses to rest for a while.

 


	2. Act One - Chapter One

 

 

It's Saturday and that means it's been four days since Dad left. Dean pretends he hasn't been counting, but every single hour since he was dropped off here has ticked by with a slowness that hurts. It's like every day that goes by without Dad coming back and saying he didn't mean it, they're still in this together, is a tick-mark on Dean's skin. He can't stop staring at each one, picking at them, hoping that this newest one will be the last. But every morning Dean wakes up and the knocks on the door are Missouri's customers or neighbors or delivery men, not Dad, and Dean aches like there's a cold building in his chest even though it's the start of summer and he hasn't been sick in years.

Missouri doesn't say much about it, just looks at him with soft eyes like she knows exactly how he feels. Dean wants to yell at her to stop that because she can't know, no one can. He's all alone here; his mom's dead and his dad's gone and Sammy . . . out of everyone, it shouldn't have been Sammy. Dean was supposed to protect him and he couldn't and now there's no one left. There's not a person in the world who can know how Dean feels. Not a damn one.

But he doesn't say the words out loud. He can't even bring himself to be angry at Missouri because that takes too much energy and Dean doesn't have any left. He cried it all out that first night, maybe. Ran it all off when he took off that second day. Now almost two more days have passed and he's just tired. All can bring himself to do is curl up on the couch and stare out the window and jump every time someone comes to the door, blindly hoping that this time it'll be the face he's hoping for.

It never is.

Dean's not sure how long it's going to take for him to just give up and accept life as it is now; he still wakes up and looks across the bed for Sam before he remembers his little brother won't be there and he still gets up and starts his morning warm-ups and exercises before he realizes that's not really necessary anymore. So far Missouri hasn't asked him to do much aside from clean up after himself and stay out of trouble, probably to give him time to adjust, but he almost wishes she'd put him to work. His hands feel as empty and restless as the rest of him.

Midday, after the Saturday morning cartoons are long over and he’s left with nothing but a boring game of golf to watch, the doorbell rings. Missouri bustles through the living room before Dean even has a chance to mute the television, sparing him a small smile before she swings the door open.

"And there's my boy," she says in this tone that's all warmth and relief, kind of like the way she'd greeted Dean with a murmured, "Oh, honey" but minus all the sadness he'd heard in her voice that night.

Dean crawls to the other end of the couch and peers out toward the foyer to see who's turned up. He's half-expecting a grandchild or son or some other relative, but the boy in question is white. In fact, he's pasty and pale in the flood of sunlight that spills through the open door. His dark hair sticks up in short tufts, messy and wild, and his clothes hang off of his body like they're second-hand. As Dean watches, Missouri reaches out to pull the boy into a tight hug and holds onto him for so long Dean starts to feel uncomfortable.

"Don't you ever scare me like that again, you hear?" Missouri says.

There's a mumble in response and then Missouri sets the boy away from her with two hands cradling his thin shoulders. She looks him over and makes the same pronouncement she'd made about Dean four days ago:

"You look fit to blow away with the next gust of wind. Lucky for you I've got enough food in this house to feed a horse." And then without even looking over her shoulder she says, "Dean, stop eavesdropping and get over here so I can introduce you."

He's embarrassed at being caught, but Dean obediently slides off the couch and walks over. The boy's only about an inch taller than Dean is and looks like he might be a little older. It's hard to tell because he's so skinny and small-looking, his gaze on the floor and his shoulders rounded and tight. Dean stands a few feet away and tucks his hands into his pockets.

"Hi," he says.

The boy looks up and Dean's pinned to the spot by the bluest eyes he's ever seen. They're bright against the paleness of his skin and so wide that they remind Dean of Sammy when he was still really little and hadn't started to grow into all his features yet. It makes Dean's heart lurch and his stomach hurt and he looks away quickly.

"Dean, this is Jimmy Novak. Jimmy, this is Dean Winchester. He's just moved in with me so I imagine you'll be seeing quite a bit of each other." When Dean looks up at her in confusion, Missouri says, "The Novaks are old family friends, just moved back to town. Jimmy's here for the afternoon while his parents start to get settled in."

Dean nods even though he doesn't really care much either way. He feels awkward around this new kid and strangely territorial. He'd met Missouri for the first and last time when he was almost too young to remember; he still has vague impressions of clutching Sammy's little body to his while he all but sank into the soft armchair in the corner and watched his dad ask question after mind-boggling question. They'd hit the road after that, avoiding Lawrence and as much of Kansas as possible as they tore across the country in search of the answers Missouri couldn't give.

She’d welcomed Dean warmly enough, but he feels like she might be more fond of Jimmy than of him. It's stupid, but this is all Dean's got now and he doesn't want some scrawny jerk taking it from him.

"I'll just let you two get to know each other while I go fix up lunch," Missouri says. She glances between them and adds, "And behave. Both of you."

Jimmy's lips quirk up in a small smile and he nods. Missouri pauses long enough for Dean to sigh and say, "I _will_ ," before she heads back toward the kitchen and leaves the two of them alone. Dean rocks up onto his toes and back down again and Jimmy tracks the movement with his eyes but neither of them says anything. Eventually Dean nods at the front door.

"Aren't you going to close that? Were you raised in a damn barn or something?" he asks.

He feels the need to take charge here and to let this new guy know that Dean's the one who lives here which makes Dean the one who gets to lay down rules and decide who does what. But Jimmy just shrugs it off.

"No," he answers honestly.

But he reaches behind himself to pull the door shut and then looks at Dean expectantly, like he's not even going to fight him on the pecking order here. Dean nods to himself, pleased with this turn of events, and then cocks his head toward the living room.

"Want to put on a movie? All the good cartoons are over but Missouri's got some cool stuff on tape."

Dean's only glanced through the titles so far, declining all of her offers to sit down and watch one because it reminds him too much of how excited Sammy got whenever they were able to curl up in a hotel bed together and catch a movie from start to finish. He isn't sure why he's offering now because there 'ares plenty of other things to do. But he doesn't feel like venturing outside and he hasn't unpacked any of his comic books yet. He doesn't think Jimmy looks like the type to be into those anyway. A movie's a pretty safe bet, though, right? Everybody likes movies.

"Sure," Jimmy says. "Maybe I could bring some of mine over next time."

The sound of "next time" is ominous to Dean. He isn't sure he's ready to share Missouri with anyone other than her customers even though that's a stupid thing to think and he feels like a baby the second it crosses his mind. But he can play nice. Maybe if he's good then everything will be okay. If he does like his dad asked and he doesn't act up or do anything dumb, Dad'll come back and they can be together again.

"That sounds cool," Dean says.

Jimmy smiles at him, small and a little sweet, and Dean ducks his head and stalks toward the living room so the other boy won't see him start to smile back.

_._

Over the next few weeks, Jimmy becomes a semi-permanent fixture at Missouri's house. He calls her "Aunt Missouri" and shows up without fail at least five mornings out of the week and stays until after dinner. His parents eventually pick him up but Dean only meets them once and they creep him out a little. They're not _bad_ or anything; they just remind him of pod people.

Dean knows from the way Jimmy says prayers over his meals and doesn't want to watch R-rated movies that he's one of those Christian kids so Dean assumes he learned that from his parents. It makes Dean nervous to be around the Novaks for that reason, like they'll look at him and just _know_ what kind of kid he is and all the things he's already done. Not that Dean's committed any terrible sins or anything, and God apparently likes guns so it can't be any of that.

It's just that Dean cusses and yells and does lots of things that Christian people probably think are wrong. He's never wanted to impress any adults before, and that hasn't changed, but he doesn't really want to give the Novaks any reason to forbid him from seeing Jimmy. He's been that kid before, the one other boys weren't allowed to hang out with. It never mattered when they'd be leaving and looking for a new school in a matter of months but Dean's stuck here and Jimmy's different so it matters now.

Dean isn't even sure he'd call them friends exactly. Jimmy's older than Dean for starters. Way older. And there's the whole religion thing which Dean just doesn't get at all. They don't even have a whole lot in common; Jimmy likes to read and when he's outside he isn't running around and getting bruised up and dirty. He just . . . watches. Dean likes to play and if that means tearing a pair of pants or something then that's just a small sacrifice to make for some fun. They like different cartoons and fight over the remote on the Saturday mornings and weekday afternoons that Jimmy comes over. Dean loves junk food. Jimmy doesn't eat much at all.

He's the weirdest kid Dean's ever met and if all that weren't enough to make them mortal enemies, Missouri actually told Jimmy to keep an eye on Dean and make sure he stays out of trouble, like he needs a babysitter or something. Dean's pretty sure he wasn't supposed to hear the conversation but he did and he knows that's half the reason Jimmy even hangs out with him.

The real problem isn't really any of that, though. Dean doesn't really want any friends, not now that he can't have Sam or his Dad around. He's no good at making them anyway and what does he know about _being_ one? Nothing, that's what. But he doesn't want to be alone, either. It makes things weird with Jimmy because half the time Dean wants to smack him or rub dirt in his face or say the dirtiest words he knows, just because he can. The rest of the time he kind of wants to grab the other boy and refuse to let him go because he's all Dean's got outside of Missouri and there's no telling when she'll disappear. Everyone does eventually.

Jimmy, at least, doesn't seem to be having an easier time of it. He gets frustrated with Dean's attitude and yells sometimes when Dean's outside about to do something extra stupid, like back flip off a tree branch. Most nights he sleeps over, Dean leaves for a morning run while he's still in bed and doesn't come back until a few minutes before Missouri wakes up which always makes him freak out. But he's never mean and he doesn't treat Dean like some dumb little kid. He never talks about Jesus or anything annoying, either. So what they have is some weird kind of non-friendship, like a cat and a dog living together under a peace treaty or something.

"I know you like that boy," Missouri tells Dean one night.

They both watch from the doorway as Jimmy climbs into the car idling at the curb.

"He's okay," Dean says.

Missouri laughs and shakes her head.

"Whatever you say, Dean."

Dean frowns up at her but she just ruffles his hair and walks back into the house. As soon as the Novaks' car pulls away, Dean follows her.

The next day's a Tuesday but it's not like it matters. Dean’s never been very concerned with days of the week, not when he’s never gone to school for long enough that regular passage of time has managed to stick. Plus it’s summer, now, so even normal kids treat every day like a Saturday.

The only thing that's significant about Tuesdays is that Missouri has a handful of house calls to make so it's just Jimmy and Dean together for a few hours. She leaves in the morning after fixing them both up with breakfast - and giving Jimmy the extra helpings like always because he never seems to gain any weight - and leaves behind a laundry list of chores to do and rules to obey.

"Please," she says while she slips her shoes on at the door, " _please_ don't burn the house down, all right? Emergency numbers are by the phone, cold cuts and mayo in the fridge, and if you boys eat me out of house and home I'll make you work it off with extra shifts mowing the lawns."

Dean rolls his eyes but Jimmy smiles at her and promises they'll be good, just like he always does. Missouri gives him one of her fond smiles and then raises her eyebrows at Dean.

"What?" he asks.

She just pulls him in for a quick hug. "You look after Jimmy, okay?" she says into his ear.

And then she lets him go, gives Jimmy a quick squeeze, and heads off with a wave. They watch her drive away through the front window, her words still ringing in Dean’s ears. It reminds him a bit too much of things he doesn’t like to think about.

"Want to watch TV?" Jimmy asks.

Dean shakes off the uneasy feeling in his stomach and shrugs in reply.

They make their way into the living room and settle on the couch, Jimmy tucked into one corner and Dean wedged up against the other. There really isn't anything interesting on, just a bunch of stupid daytime shows for grown-ups. Boring. Dean manages to sit still for an hour, letting Jimmy pick the channels they watch even though it seems like they keep coming back to lame specials about different animals. Eventually, though, he starts to feel itchy under the skin.

He gets like this sometimes and knows it's not just because there's nothing to do. He still hates the way the ground feels when it's so steady under his feet, immobile and unchanging. It's not like Dad didn't settle them in places for a few months at a time. He'd leave them with Pastor Jim for weeks if there was a big hunt he couldn't be sure he'd come back from.

It's knowing that it won't ever change, that Dean's going to keep waking up in the same bed and looking out the same window at the same trees that makes Dean feel so trapped. He misses his family and his home, the same one that's parked in the garage but feels more and more like a stranger every day. He misses falling asleep in one city and waking up hundreds of miles away.

Today he misses all of it so much it hurts.

"Wanna go outside?" Dean asks. "We could play catch or something."

Jimmy looks at him blankly.

"I've never done that before," he says.

"Gone outside? We do it all the time, stupid."

Jimmy makes a face, the closest he ever comes to rolling his eyes, and says, "I've never played catch. My dad hates sports."

Dean gapes at him. Whose dad hates _sports_? Dean's dad never did let them play very often but he'd watch a game on TV if he were ever in one place long enough. He even taught Dean how to throw a ball, back before everything got so bad. And okay, maybe that doesn't even count because what does Dean remember from that? He was practically a baby and if he's honest about it, he only taught himself how to throw a baseball and a football so he could show Sam one day, like a big brother should. Still, if Dad hadn't been so busy hunting and saving people and trying to find the thing that killed mom, he would've showed Dean. And then he would've showed Sam.

So yeah, Jimmy's dad still wins the contest for biggest weirdo here.

"That's the lamest thing I've ever heard," Dean says. "Come on, I'll teach you."

Jimmy doesn't look like he trusts Dean's ball-throwing ability, which is just sad. Dean's a great athlete; he's a fast runner and he's strong and he can throw harder and faster than a lot of boys. He used to shut bullies up by being the king of gym class at all his old schools.

"I'm serious," Dean says. "You have to know how to throw a ball. It's the rules."

"What rules?" Jimmy asks and Dean just grabs his hand and pulls him off the couch.

" _The_ rules. Does it matter?"

Jimmy goes willingly enough after that. He follows Dean upstairs and watches Dean rummage through his stuff looking for an old baseball. It shouldn't be hard to find but Dean doesn't remember packing and he hasn't moved out of the boxes yet. There are only two of them, mostly full of clothes, but he's worried about how he'll explain it to Dad if he's all moved in when it's time to leave again. Dean's still trying to convince himself that it'll ever _be_ time to leave again.

"I don't have a football anymore," Dean says. "Don't have any gloves either, but we don't need 'em."

He finds the baseball tucked inside an old pair of socks and pulls it out. It's a little faded but not too battered and it'll be perfect for this. He closes his fingers around it and thinks about how he'd been hoping to teach Sammy soon, probably even this summer. He was gonna be seven and that would've been old enough, right? Now he's not here to learn and Dean thinks maybe he waited too long. Maybe he made a mistake not doing it as soon as Sammy's hands were big enough.

"Dean?" Jimmy asks.

His voice is quiet but it's enough to jerk Dean out of his thoughts. His eyes prickle with tears and he feels like such a sissy but Jimmy probably won't notice. Dean rubs at them with his palms just in case and mumbles about dust and allergies. Jimmy doesn't say anything, just steps aside when Dean barrels past and trails him down the stairs and into the backyard. The sounds of summer are all around them; there's an ice cream truck singing a few blocks away while cicadas buzz in the trees and kids yell and scream all up and down the street. It's the weirdest thing to almost be a part of that. Dean doesn't think he'll ever really belong to this kind of normal picture but he's not as removed from it as he used to be. It doesn't feel right in his skin yet.

"Okay," Dean says, beckoning Jimmy out onto the lawn, "first I gotta teach you how to hold it."

Jimmy walks over and stands close, watching carefully as Dean shows him how to grip the ball. When he hands it over, Jimmy mimics the position of his hand a little clumsily so Dean reaches out to adjust it. For all that Jimmy's so much older - a friggin' teenager for crying out loud - he isn't that much bigger. He's got about two inches on Dean and his fingers are a little longer. He's not quite all limbs so it's hard to tell how much more he'll grow. Maybe, Dean thinks as he slides his fingers along Jimmy's and nudges them into place, he'll grow up to be one of those really short guys, kinda like a midget.

"Got it?" Dean asks.

Jimmy nods although he doesn't look all that confident. Dean figures that'll come with practice, though. All he has to do is see how easy it is. Dean sets Jimmy into place, then jogs a few feet away and turns to face him. Jimmy glances down at the ball and then at Dean's open, waiting palm.

"Go ahead," Dean says and Jimmy chucks the ball.

Sure it makes it to Dean's hand, but that was the softest, ugliest throw Dean ever saw and he laughs so hard he thinks he might've busted something.

"No, no. Don't throw it like _that_. Girls don't even throw it like that. Here, like this."

Dean winds up carefully, rocks back on his planted foot, and then steps into the throw. He tries not to make it too hard since they're playing bare-handed but Jimmy still drops the ball with an offended look.

"Are you sure we don't need gloves? Everyone I've ever seen play catch uses gloves," Jimmy says.

"Well, we're not really playing catch, right? You can't even throw yet. We'll work up to it and then we'll see about gloves."

Jimmy sighs but bends to pick up the ball and does his best to copy Dean's movements from earlier. His form's better but the aim's all crap and the ball lands about five feet to the left of where Dean's standing. Dean laughs again and runs to pick it up.

"Okay, let's try it again," he says.

This time he walks over to Jimmy and positions the ball in his hands again. Then he adjusts Jimmy's stance and talks him through it slow. For a while he doesn't even think about Sammy, but a few times he looks up and expects to see his brother and it hits him like a brick to the mouth when Jimmy's blue eyes are gazing down at him instead.

"I think I've got it," Jimmy says.

His voice is hushed and that's when Dean realizes how close they're standing, practically pressed up against each other. Dean jumps away and nods before he turns and jogs back to his spot across the yard. He knows he's blushing but hopefully Jimmy can't tell. Or if he can tell he won't say anything.

Jimmy doesn't mention it, though, just takes a couple seconds to compose himself or whatever it is that requires closed eyes and steady breathing. Then he turns and throws and . . . it's not perfect or even very pretty, but it gets where it needs to go and it's a definite improvement. Dean grins at him and throws it back and Jimmy actually catches it. After that, they keep lobbing the ball back and forth. The throws are soft and easy but Jimmy's accuracy gets better every time and after a while he can even get some power behind them.

They stay outside long enough that Dean's skin starts to feel hot from the sun and Jimmy looks a little red. Dean winces, thinking about how Missouri will not be happy if they end up sunburned, and hangs onto the ball after Jimmy throws it to him.

"We should get inside," he says. "I'm kinda hungry."

Jimmy nods and they wander into the house together.

"You know," Jimmy says, "I never thought I'd be able to do something like that."

Dean looks over at him as he shuts the back door. "What? Throw a ball around?"

"Yeah," Jimmy says. "Just. Being sick. There's a lot you can't do."

They never talk about it, Jimmy's sickness. Dean doesn't even know what he's got or what happened. He's overheard a few things - that Jimmy was in the hospital for a long time and missed a lot of school - but no details. Dean's been afraid to ask and Jimmy's been real quiet about it. It hasn't been a big deal between them and Dean likes it that way. He's not comfortable when things get serious and Jimmy being sick definitely fits into that category.

"Well, you just did," Dean says, and Jimmy smiles so hard his eyes crinkle at the corners.

Dean grins back and hops up onto the kitchen counter while Jimmy heads to the fridge for the sandwich ingredients. They're both quiet as they move around - Dean kicking his feet against the cabinets and handing over things like bread slices and butter knives - so Dean almost doesn't notice when it happens. In fact, if he hadn't been watching the careful way Jimmy spreads mayonnaise on the bread, he isn't sure how he'd have figured out something's wrong. But he was watching so he sees when Jimmy goes suddenly still, all except for his eyes which he squeezes shut tight against the rolling movement of his eyeballs.

"You okay?" Dean asks.

Jimmy's nod turns into a jerk of his shoulders and the next thing Dean knows, the other boy's crashed to the floor. Dean stares in horror at Jimmy's convulsing body for the split second it takes for his hunter training to kick in. Then he's off the counter and crashing to his knees at Jimmy's side. He's never seen anything like this before, Jimmy's twitching limbs or jerking head, and he doesn't know what to _do_. He wishes, suddenly, that this were a spirit or something, something he could throw salt at or pump bullets into. But it's not and all he can think to do is grab Jimmy's arms and hold him while everything inside pulls tight and freezes over with fear.

"Please be okay," he murmurs. "Please, Jimmy. Please stop, come on."

He says it over and over until his words are a drone along with Jimmy's strange silence punctuated by sound the heels of his shoes make against the floor or the rustle of his hair or his rattle-like, uneven breathing. Dean says his name but Jimmy doesn't respond so he keeps his hands locked around Jimmy's wrists. The other boy’s muscles feel all wrong, tight and angry, and it's like no matter what Dean says Jimmy can't hear him and maybe he should call 911 right? Dad always said no doctors, no police, only in an emergency but this isn't Dean and Sam alone while he's hunting. This is Jimmy and Jimmy's sick and this is too big for Dean.

"Please," Dean says again, his voice choked up.

There are tears on his cheeks and splashing onto the pale skin of Jimmy's arms and Dean's so damn _scared_. He can't lose somebody else, not this soon. Not when he could stop it if he only knew _how_. He closes his eyes and he sends up some stupid, wishful prayer to whoever might be listening and just like that Jimmy goes limp. Dean's hands are suddenly gripping noodles for arms and when he opens his eyes, Jimmy's slumped on the floor like a doll.

"Jimmy?"

The other boy's eyelids flutter and then open and all Dean sees is blue and he doesn't care that Jimmy can see him crying because at least that means Jimmy's _okay_.

"What happened?" Jimmy asks.

"Dunno," Dean says.

His voice is thick with tears and snot but he doesn't want to let go of Jimmy just yet. He's shifted so that they're holding hands now. He's no longer got the other boy pinned, and Jimmy's gripping back just as tight as Dean's holding on to him.

"You scared me. Are you okay?"

Jimmy thinks about it for a moment and then says, "I'm really tired. I can't . . . I don't remember how I got down here."

"Probably not a bad thing," Dean says and he really doesn't want to let Jimmy go or let him out of his sight, but the floor probably isn't all that comfortable. "You should lie down."

Jimmy nods, slow and still confused, and Dean stands up and then reaches down to help the other boy to his feet. Jimmy starts to head for the couch but Dean shakes his head and heads for his bedroom instead. His bed's way more comfortable.

It makes Dean feel useful, putting Jimmy to bed and tucking him in and closing the curtains so they have a little darkness. Dean sits on his desk chair and Jimmy rolls over to face him.

"Do you need some water or something?" Dean asks.

Jimmy shakes his head and stares at him for a moment before he says, "You're really good at this."

"What?"

"Looking after me."

Dean glances away and says, "It was my job to take care of someone once. But I screwed up somehow 'cause now it's not anymore."

"Not your fault," Jimmy says.

Dean closes his eyes tight and wants to argue but no words come out when he opens his mouth and Jimmy's asleep when Dean looks up again. A few kids can still be heard playing outside and Missouri'll be home soon and life just keeps going on. It's like the world doesn't care what just happened to Jimmy or Dean, what happened to Mom and Sammy and Dad.

And Dean'll never do it again because this is just proof that whatever God might be out there has to be a mean, horrible old man, but he sends up a thank you anyway. You know, for keeping Jimmy alive when Dean wasn't sure what to do. And then Dean tucks his knees up to his chest and watches Jimmy sleep, counting every breath and relaxing just a little bit with each one.


	3. Act One - Chapter Two

 

The dream is a treat. Aunt Missouri’s told Jimmy that everyone dreams but he never remembers his when he wakes up so he has a hard time believing he even has them. Dean thinks it’s bizarre; the first time Jimmy admitted to never having a dream before, or at least not one he could remember, Dean’d looked like someone had slapped him across the face with the sandwich he was eating.

“You’re kidding, right?” he’d asked, his mouth full of half-chewed lettuce and tomato.

“No,” Jimmy’d said.

It had been a common conversation between them the first year that they’d known each other. Dean’s life was already an array of colorful experiences, some he refused to talk about and others that he wore like a badge of honor. He was just a kid and he’d already experienced more than Jimmy’d ever even let himself imagine – fistfights and first kisses and R-rated movies. Even the things Dean hadn’t done yet seemed a foregone conclusion for Jimmy since he was so much older and everything.

It was kind of nice in a weird way. Jimmy’d been surrounded by well-meaning adults, terrified kids, and scary doctors and nurses for most of his life. No one bothered to ask him what sports he liked to play the most or if he’d ever blown up a mailbox or chugged so much Mountain Dew he’d puked or set off fireworks in the parking lot or stayed up all night. They all knew he couldn’t because he was sick and Jimmy learned not to want or hope for those kinds of things.

By the time Dean had come along, Jimmy’d forgotten that there was such a thing as a “normal life”. He’s still not sure he’ll ever believe that he’s allowed to have one, not when he’s spent so long thinking it’s impossible.

The lack of dreams, though, has always seemed to strike Dean as particularly odd. Jimmy knows why, or at least he thinks he does, but he’s not going to say anything about it. It’s not really his place and anyway, based on the nightmares that seem to plague Dean almost every night, he’s not sure he’s missing out on much.

This, though, is nothing like the terrors Jimmy’s imagined he might experience. This is something so far beyond the realm and scope of fear, of anxiety, of pain . . . he can’t even dredge up a memory of what any of that feels like.

Nothing happens, not like the dreams in movies. There’s no plot to follow. There doesn’t even seem to be anyone else around. Jimmy’s surrounded by nothing but light, here. It’s like sinking into a hot bath and taking a deep breath after a storm. He feels comfort wrap itself around him like a blanket and warmth soak his bones and heat him from the inside out. His skin tingles and his head is clear and nothing hurts. It’s amazing.

It takes Jimmy a few minutes to realize he can move, that this is more than just a dream about the senses. The space is void of any actual _things_ ; there are no chairs or windows or doors, nothing to tell him where he is. He can only tell he’s moving – flying – because of the air that slides across his cheeks and ruffles through his hair. It’s possible, he thinks, that he’s not anyplace that could be considered a “where”, but there’s something about it that reminds him of home.

Jimmy falls back into the light and lets it cradle him, holding him aloft like he weighs nothing. He floats for a long time and feels happy and loved in a way that’s so far beyond words or understanding that it can only be felt.

There’s no telling how long it’s been when the light around him starts to pulse. Threads of unease tangle around Jimmy’s wrist and give a tug. He tries to pull them off but they’re sticky and tight and tug again and again until Jimmy gives in. There’s a great pull, like being hauled out of water, and he sits upright in his bed with burning lungs, choking on his own gasping breaths.

It takes him a second to realize anything’s wrong. Other than his own panting, the room is quiet. He glances around. Nothing looks out of place, but there’s something in the air that doesn’t feel right. It could always been an intruder and Jimmy freezes up at the thought and listens for any sound that might tell him what’s wrong. He expects a crash from downstairs or heavy footsteps in the hallway. Instead he gets the not-so-quiet rap of knuckles against his windowpane.

The sound might as well have been a gunshot from the way Jimmy jumps and smothers a yell with a hand over his mouth. He nearly dives under his covers to hide but he realizes just in time that the figure straddling a tree branch outside isn’t a robber; it’s Dean.

Jimmy sighs in relief and climbs out of bed, padding across the carpet to unlatch the window and swing it open. How Dean had managed to climb up the tree in their front yard and shimmy close enough to knock on the window, Jimmy has no idea. He also doesn’t know how Dean manages to get inside without falling and breaking his neck, but he doesn’t say anything about it because Dean looks awful.

There’s just enough light from the streetlamps outside and the moon overhead to illuminate Dean’s face. His eyes are puffy and red and his cheeks are damp from tears or sweat, it’s hard for Jimmy to tell. He looks a little dirty, like he’s been playing outside, and his clothes are wrinkled. A good once-over reveals that the hole in the knee of Dean’s jeans is fresh and very, very bloody.

“Did you get in a _fight_?” Jimmy asks in a hushed voice.

Dean stares at him. “What? No. It’s the middle of the night, dummy.”

Jimmy stares right back. “You look like you got in a fight.”

A flush steals its way up Dean’s cheeks and he ducks his head and looks away. Jimmy recognizes it as his guilty look.

“No fight,” Dean says. “I just . . . ran away.”

There’s nothing in Dean’s tone to say that’s a lie – and it’s much more believable than Jimmy’s fight theory. Except for one thing, though.

“Why would you run away from Aunt Missouri?”

“I didn’t run away from _her_ ,” Dean says, sounding like he’d rather jump out of Jimmy’s window than talk about this.

Jimmy opens his mouth to ask more questions but he sees a scrape across Dean’s forehead. Between that and the knee, Jimmy thinks a little first aid might be in order.

“Come on,” he says.

He closes his hand around Dean’s wrist and tugs him along, out of Jimmy’s room and into the bathroom across the hall. Jimmy flicks on the light and closes the door.

Dean’s been here plenty of times before, but he still looks around like he’s never seen it. Jimmy thinks that might just be because he doesn’t want to look at Jimmy just yet. That’s fine. It’s not like this isn’t behavior Jimmy hasn’t dealt with before. He gives Dean a nudge toward the closed toilet seat and then rummages around under the sink for the first aid kit.

It’s right where Dean’d left it the last time Jimmy had a seizure. It had been pretty mild but he’d ended up with a bloody lip somehow. Dean had dragged him up here to patch it up.

Usually it’s Dean looking after Jimmy and sometimes Jimmy isn’t sure why the other boy even bothers. He’s still pretty young. He should be with other kids doing kid stuff, not staying close when Jimmy’s head hurts so bad he pukes or telling Jimmy’s parents he had another fit but he’s fine now and everything’s okay. It makes Jimmy’s heart hurt in this really weird way whenever he thinks about it.

Dean’s uncharacteristically quiet as Jimmy gets everything together. Jimmy’s mind races to figure out what happened. It must have been bad to have left Dean like this. In all the time they’ve known each other, Jimmy’s seen Dean mad and embarrassed and happy and cocky and a dozen other things but never quiet or sad or both at once. Jimmy’d be lying if he said he wasn’t a little freaked out right now.

When Jimmy turns to Dean with the brown peroxide bottle in hand, the other boy’s eyes are squeezed shut and his lashes are wet with tears. Dean’s teeth are sunken into his bottom lip and he doesn’t make a single sound but every few seconds his whole body twitches violently.

For a moment Jimmy’s glued to the spot. He can’t breathe and he’s _scared_ , worried that something’s happened to Missouri or, worse, something terrible’s happened to Dean. And then a fierce rush of feeling spills out through Jimmy’s body, hot and strong like the first sip of tea, and he realizes no matter what’s happened, he has to look after Dean, now.

Jimmy kneels on the floor and turns to Dean’s knee first. The hole in his jeans is wide enough that Jimmy can see where the skin is frayed and the surrounding edges that are a little dusty but otherwise okay. He curls a hand around Dean’s calf to hold him steady and remind the other boy he’s there.

“This is gonna hurt,” he says without looking up.

He pours a little of the peroxide over the cut. It foams and crackles on impact but Dean only sucks in a breath and doesn’t make another sound. Jimmy doesn’t realize he’s rubbing small, soothing circles into Dean’s leg until he has to let go to finish patching Dean up.

Jimmy’s cheeks heat with a blush, embarrassed about doing something only a mom would normally do, but he doesn’t say a word, just gets Dean all cleaned up and then smoothes a bandage over the cut. He moves onto the scrape across Dean’s forehead, next, dabbing at it to get it disinfected and clean. There’s not really a bandage big enough for that, but it’s not all that bad so Jimmy thinks it should be okay.

He starts to pull away but stops short when Dean holds out his hands. The palms are scraped almost raw and Jimmy can see tiny pebbles and specks of dirt underneath the flakey blood. Climbing the tree with his hands like this must have been painful and Jimmy winces at the thought.

Dean stays quiet as Jimmy cleans his palms, carefully plucking out all of the rocks and then going in with the peroxide.

“I ran away from my dad,” Dean finally says when Jimmy’s busy pulling apart the paper of a band-aid.

Jimmy pauses and swallows hard.

“Did he . . . . “ He doesn’t want to finish that question, isn’t even sure he can; he busies himself with getting Dean bandaged up instead.

“No!” Dean says. “No way. I tripped over my own stupid feet on my way here.”

There’s a pause while Jimmy unpeels the last band-aid.

“I wish he’d hit me,” Dean finally says, his voice quiet like he’s murmuring some kind of horrible confession. With the way the words twist Jimmy’s stomach into knots, he thinks that’s probably what this is. “It can’t be any worse than when he leaves.”

What can Jimmy say to that? He doesn’t know much about Dean’s family, just that whatever happened to them was really bad. He knows that Dean has horrible nightmares, that sometimes he cries and talks in his sleep. He’s noticed how Dean sometimes makes comments about Jimmy or Missouri leaving him someday, like either of them ever would. It’d be impossible to miss the fact that Dean’s dad is never around and that nobody talks about him coming back.

Jimmy’s never been able to dwell on any of it because he has no idea how to put it all together in a way that’ll let him figure Dean out. For all that Dean’s young and everyone always talks about how simple it is to be that age, how easy everything comes, Dean’s not like that at all. He’s the most complex person Jimmy knows.

Jimmy chews on his bottom lip and presses the band-aid down on the ugly cut that slices across the heel of Dean’s hand.

“Still hurt?” Jimmy asks.

He glances up in time to see Dean nodding even though his lips form the word “no”. Jimmy only hesitates long enough to suck in a breath before he lets go of Dean’s hand and pulls him into a hug instead. Dean resists it for a few long seconds and then he tips forward and brings his arms up around Jimmy’s back. Dean holds on tight and Jimmy just closes his eyes and stays right where he is.

For a moment, he’s reminded of his dream. That sense of unease loosens up deep inside, uncoiling in something like a stretch of relief. It feels weird but not _bad_. It feels like he’s done something right, like he’s exactly where he needs to be, but there’s something else, just at the edges of the feeling. Jimmy needs to remember something important and it’s _right there_. He reaches out for it, tries to tug it loose –

“This is pretty lame, you know,” Dean says.

Just like that the feeling vanishes and Jimmy’s back in the bathroom with an armful of Dean and knees that are starting to ache and the smell of hydrogen peroxide thick in the air. Jimmy’s left with the empty feeling of forgetting a thing he can’t even remember knowing in the first place, but he ignores it and tightens his arms around Dean instead.

“Shut up and let me hug you,” he says.

Dean laughs, the sound a little wet and weak, and does just that.  



	4. Act One - Chapter Three

 

The first thing Missouri says is, "Do not make me regret handing over these keys, boy, I mean it."

Dean knows she’s serious about it because if ever there was a woman who means every word she says, it's Missouri, but the stern look on her face is offset by the way her eyes sparkle with good humor and happiness. She's playing up her reluctance because that's what she does, but Dean can tell she's as happy to be giving him his birthday gift as he is to be receiving it.

"I promise," he says.

She narrows her eyes at him and he tries to look as earnest as possible. He's not the best at pulling off puppy-eyed-and-innocent but he's not half bad, either. Missouri can see right through that but she smiles anyway and holds out her hand. The keys sit in her palm on a simple, silver ring; Dean's house key used to rest next to the one he has to the Novaks’ place but now there’s a new one nestled between them.

It's so innocuous to look at – just a little piece of metal meant to open doors and start an ignition. It's a key to a _car_ and sure that's reason enough for any sixteen-year-old to be struck with grateful awe. But none of that explains why Dean's suddenly frozen to the spot, unable to just reach out and close his fingers around it.

Missouri's quiet and patient like she always is and Dean's thankful for it. He knows it's stupid, but that key's to the _Impala_. Dean grew up in that car. He called the backseat home. When Dad first dropped him off here Dean would sneak in and curl up back there and think of Sam. It was almost like he could still smell his baby brother's shampoo and the fries he ate for lunch, like he could feel the rumble of the road beneath him. But then he'd look out the windows and the trees were stationary and the sky wasn't moving and he'd be back in a world without Sammy or Dad or endless days of driving and hunting.

The key to the car eventually disappeared from where Missouri kept it and Dean couldn't bring himself to break in. He hasn't been in that car since, and the thought of it makes his chest tighten up to the point of pain.

"You don't have to go joyridin' right away," Missouri tells him. "But your daddy wanted you to have this. That's your car now."

Dean looks up and Missouri's still smiling, the expression soft and full of understanding. She knows why this is a bigger deal than some kid getting his first set of wheels and that's comforting. Like Dean's not completely alone in this moment, suspended somewhere between the sense of loss that'll never go away and the bright hope of a future stretched out before him like all those winding highways of his childhood.

He reaches out to clasp the keys in his hand. The world doesn't stop spinning; he doesn't black out or get dizzy. The metal's warm from Missouri's grip and the edge of each key presses into the meat of Dean's palm like a sharp, excited little hello.

"If you ask me, she's been bored sitting out there in that garage for all these years," Missouri says.

"I think we can fix that."

And then he grins and tosses the keys in the air, catching them on the way down. Missouri shakes her head.

"Why do I get the feeling you and that car are gonna get up to ten different kinds of trouble when I'm not lookin'?"

Dean just smiles and darts in to give her a quick hug. He's not usually the affectionate type, something she's teased him about before, but this is a special occasion. She hugs him back, her arms solid and safe, and Dean leans into her just a little bit. He whispers his thanks into her ear, for more than just a key and a birthday cake. She pushes him away and holds him at arm's length, fixing him with a look that's full of some emotion Dean can't begin to name.

"This is the least I could do for you," she says.

There's no way of telling what she means exactly - that's just how Missouri is sometimes - but Dean believes her and the words resonate with him as he gives her one last quick hug and then rushes out to the garage.

The Impala still gleams under the sharp lights despite her disuse, all sleek lines and shiny detailing. Dean's heart thumps hard against his ribs and he realizes that this must be what falling in love feels like.

"Baby," he says, running a hand over the hood, "you are still the most beautiful thing I've ever seen."

He pictures himself driving her around but the mental image just isn't quite right when the passenger seat's as empty as the tape deck. There's a memory that niggles at the corner of his mind and Dean walks around to the trunk, sliding the key into the lock to pop it. The main part of the trunk is empty except for one lone, cardboard box crammed up in the corner. Dean leans inside and grabs it, pulling until he can see inside. The sight of over a dozen cassette tapes tucked up against each other makes Dean grin and that leaves one thing missing.

He pulls the box out and slams the trunk shut.

"I think Jimmy's gonna love you," he says, still smiling.

_._

 

The weather doesn't hold up very well which just figures. The winter stayed mild up until about the middle of January, just in time for temperatures to drop and snow to start falling in fits and starts. But Dean's got a box of parts from Bobby - he'd scrawled a note inside that reads _You'd better remember everything I taught you. Have fun, kid._ \- and all the tools he needs. There's a space heater in the corner chasing away the chill of the garage.

A knock sounds at the door that connects to the kitchen that means Jimmy's finally showed up. "You know you don't have to do that, right?" Dean calls instead of just telling him to come in.

The door opens and Jimmy steps out wearing a hoodie that's got to be a couple sizes too big _at least_ , his cheeks still red from the cold. He raises his eyebrows and closes the door behind him.

"I like to be polite," he says.

"You like to show off for Missouri," Dean corrects.

Jimmy smiles and shrugs it off, tucking his hands into his pockets.

"So what are we doing?" he asks.

Dean steps back and spread his arms wide, framing the Impala in a classic "ta-da" pose.

"Jimmy, my new baby. Baby, this is my loser best friend Jimmy."

Jimmy inches his eyebrows up toward his hairline. "Oh, no. You're going to be one of _those_ guys, aren't you?"

Dean sniffs and says, "I have no idea what you're talking about."

His friend just stares at him, clearly not buying it. So Dean does the mature thing and flips him off before nudging the box of parts with his toe and explaining that there's a lot of work to be done. He's rattling off a list of things they need to do - change the oil and other fluids, replace the battery and whatever hoses might be useless, the whole nine - when he chances a glance at Jimmy's face and realizes he's completely checked out. He smiles and nods but his eyes are glassy and Dean can't even be offended because it's kinda cute that Jimmy's even trying considering how far removed this is from his comfort zone.

"Anyway," Dean finally says to cut himself off, "she won't be up and running until I take care of her."

"And I'm here to help?" Jimmy asks.

He sounds skeptical and Dean can't really blame him. Jimmy's never been much for working with his hands. He's more of a library-and-art-studio kind of guy, all bookish and knowledgeable about the most random shit. For all that Dean hasn't really been under the hood of a car in years, he grew up learning the ins and outs of auto repair and maintenance. He's helped Missouri a few times and used his skills to score the numbers of hot girls with flat tires or a disturbing lack of anti-freeze. This is where Dean's most comfortable - well, here and beating cocky douchebags at almost any kind of sport. He can't wait to get his hands on the Impala and he knows Jimmy would probably rather be doing something else.

Dean can't even say why he wants Jimmy here so badly. They're best friends and Dean wants to share this with him. It’s not much as far as explanations go, but it’s as close to summing up his feelings on the whole thing as he’s bound to get.

"No way. I need my girl in one piece. Just . . . sit over there and let me learn you something."

Jimmy looks all too eager to comply and wanders over to a fold-out chair resting up against the wall. He sits down and produces a book from somewhere - Dean's learned not to ask - and then flaps his hand in a 'don't let me hold you up' gesture.

While he rolls up his sleeves, Dean notices Jimmy making a big deal out of being absorbed by his book; Dean also notices that Jimmy's eyes don't move over the page and he's obviously paying more attention to what’s going on across the garage. It makes a little thrill roll up Dean's spine. It's not often he gets to be the expert at something when Jimmy’s around and he's looking forward to showing off.

Dean walks over to the hood, leans in, and starts to ramble out loud about which hoses are shot and what still looks good. He strains his ears a few times but never hears the dry rustle of a turned page. It's almost impossible for him to hide a smile and then he remembers that this is the best birthday he's had in a while and he doesn't care. He beams down at the engine and keeps talking while Jimmy continues to pretend to read.

Eventually Dean falls silent, fully absorbed in the tasks at hand, but he's distantly aware of the lack of page-turning going on behind him. He can feel Jimmy's eyes on his back but that's not really new. They watch each other a lot, enough that they've gotten teased about it at school a few times. It's more of a nuisance than an actual problem. If some guy thinks he's sucking Jimmy's dick behind the bleachers, Dean just hooks up with his sister to prove otherwise.

They don't talk about it, though, so Dean has no idea if Jimmy's bothered by it. Dean doesn't think Jimmy's the kind of guy to freak out over a few gay rumors; he's been called worse in the time that he and Dean have known each other and it's always bugged Dean the most between the two of them. Still, Jimmy's a good guy. You know, a good, religious guy. Dean sometimes wonders if it gets under his skin to have to be called gay when that's obviously against his faith or whatever.

If it does, it hasn't been enough to get Jimmy to change. He still watches Dean as much as ever and he hasn't put a stop to any of their casual touching. They don't hang out any less and when they are together they act the same as always. Dean would try to be more . . . hetero-normative or whatever the big word is for this kind of shit if Jimmy seemed to want that.

Since he doesn't, Dean isn't going to bother. They're best friends. More than that, in a lot of ways. Fuck what everyone else thinks about it.

That doesn't make Dean's response to Jimmy's gaze any less unsettling; the way the hair on the back of his neck lifts and his skin heats up has a lot less to do with discomfort than it probably should. It's also kind of new. A couple of years ago having Jimmy's eyes on him was comforting, a reassurance that the other boy was there and still cared. Now it gives Dean fucking butterflies and splits his concentration between what's going on under the Impala's hood and what's happening just over his shoulder.

It's a good thing Dean's a great multi-tasker because he'd have to kick Jimmy out if he thought this might affect the work he's doing on the Impala. Instead it starts to feel almost normal after a while, the shivery sensation in his stomach and the steady, easy work of his hands.

It's second-nature to lose track of time in the garage; he falls into a rhythm with the Impala and Jimmy's presence is friendly and comforting behind him. Dean's so lost in the moment that he doesn't realize Jimmy's moved until his friend slides up next to him and leans over the engine.

"So what am I looking at?" he asks.

Dean rolls his eyes and shoves at Jimmy's hip with his own. "Oh, _now_ you want a lesson?"

Jimmy grins sideways at him and Dean both loves and hates that his first response is still to smile right back.

"You've got a smudge on your cheek," Jimmy says, reaching out to rub at it with his thumb.

"Fixin' cars is dirty work, Jimmy," Dean says, surprised at how gruff his voice gets. "Man's work."

Jimmy huffs out a laugh and pulls his hand back.

"Obviously," he says.

He watches Dean for a long moment and as much as Dean would like to be able to look away, he can't. Hell, some days it feels like he's been drowning in Jimmy's dumb baby-blues since the day they met. Eventually Jimmy smiles again, a soft curve of his mouth, and shifts so he can fish around in his pockets.

"I got you something," he says. "It's not much."

Dean shrugs and looks down as Jimmy extracts something small from his pocket and then holds it out in his palm. A bracelet sits there, curled up like it's just waiting to fit itself to Dean's wrist. At first glance it’s made up of a series of wooden beads, but the longer Dean looks at it, the clearer the little faces on the beads become, until he realizes they're actually a sequence of little skulls. He raises his eyebrows at Jimmy.

"I went thrifting with my mom a while ago and saw this. It made me think of you."

"Just as long as they aren't real skulls," Dean teases.

"Not so much. My mom freaked out, though. I told her they're prayer beads for someone who's lost a loved one."

Dean freezes and can't help the frown he feels twist his mouth.

"Jimmy-"

"Come on," Jimmy cuts in, still smiling. "You know I wouldn't do that."

And the thing is, Dean does. He stares down at the bracelet again, wonders why something so small can feel so important.

"So you lied," he says.

"Well, they _are_ prayer beads. Just Buddhist ones. They're for meditating on life. Death. Everything in between." Jimmy pauses and then adds, "I saw them and I just thought they belong here with you. Weird, huh?"

It should be, but Dean kind of gets it. It wouldn’t be the first time he and Jimmy have had some kind of freaky sixth sense about each other. He shakes his head and reaches out to grab the bracelet and stops short when he realizes his fingers are covered in oil and grease.

"Here," Jimmy says softly.

They both watch as he reaches out to tug Dean's wrist close. They're quiet as Jimmy stretches the band of the bracelet, slides it over Dean's outstretched fingers, and settles it into place. The beads are smooth and warm from Jimmy's body heat and he longs to be able to run his fingertips over them. He barely manages to stop himself, reaching down to wipe his hands off on his ratty t-shirt so he can pull Jimmy into a hug.

"You're gonna get me dirty," Jimmy says.

Dean hooks his chin over Jimmy's shoulder and inhales the smell of him, brisk like the weather outside and clean and familiar.

"Don't care," he replies.

Jimmy must not either because he wraps his arms around Dean's waist and if they hang on for a few beats longer than they should, it's not like there's anyone around to notice or care.

They go back to what they were doing - Dean working on the car and Jimmy watching, albeit from across the open hood instead of the other side of the garage. A few minutes later Missouri comes into the garage and shakes her head at the sight of them.

"You boys had better get yourselves cleaned up if you expect me to feed you," she says before walking back inside.

Jimmy and Dean share a grin and start to clean up, Jimmy returning tools to their proper places while Dean finishes a few things up with the Impala. She still needs a little work but Dean'll make all kinds of time to get her ready to drive around. Missouri was right: she's been cooped up for way too long. Dean spares his baby one more fond glance before he hooks an arm around Jimmy's shoulder and steers him toward the house.

"Hey," he says. "How'd you know so much about Buddhist prayer beads anyway?"

He glances sideways in enough time to see the faraway look that crosses Jimmy's face.

"Just picked it up somewhere I guess," he says.

For some reason, Dean doesn't push. He gets the feeling that he wouldn't like the answer to any questions he might ask, the same way he has an even stronger feeling that Jimmy might not have answers at all.  



	5. Act One - Chapter Four

 

 

The party is definitely Dean's idea.

It's not that Jimmy doesn't like going out; he has friends and hobbies and, occasionally, plans that don't involve Dean. He has a _life_ and sure, it's mostly to keep his parents happy but Jimmy gets something out of it, too. Dean can be difficult and Jimmy's other friends are uncomplicated. They go to the same church and are members of the same clubs. They read the same books, watch the same movies, and listen to the same music. They never argue; even when Jimmy disagrees with their blind concurrence with this pastor or that preacher or some bizarre interpretation of scripture, he doesn't raise a fuss. That's not what being with them is about.

In comparison, the fights Jimmy gets into with Dean over everything from where to go for lunch, what music to listen to on the way there, and whether or not it's pointless for Jimmy to say a silent blessing before he eats are exhausting. They've been like this for as long as Jimmy can remember them and he doesn't have a problem with it. He likes it, actually, but his parents don't always understand.

"We love Dean," they say sometimes, "but shouldn't you spend more time with people who have . . . similar interests?"

It's the same pointed statement they've been making since Jimmy was a teenager and Dean started to grow into his cocky, self-assuredness at a rate that his parents found alarming. He thinks they probably feared a full-scale rebellion on Jimmy's part but Dean's never pressured him into doing anything he doesn't want to do. Dean's not a bad influence or some creepy life-ruiner from a Lifetime Original Movie. He's just a kid with no parents around and more issues than even Jimmy has and they compliment each other. They go well together because of all the ways that they're different.

It doesn't hurt that Dean doesn't treat Jimmy different just because he's so much older and is just barely graduating. Jimmy has the sneaking suspicion that the friends he made to please his family associate with him mostly out of some Christian sense of pity and obligation. Despite all of their similarities on paper, they don't actually relate to each other. And that's kind of the point sometimes. Jimmy feels too close to Dean even without his parents pointing it out. Hanging out with a bunch of immature kids who only like him because they think that's what Jesus would do isn't exactly a boost to the ego or anything, but its simplicity is an escape from the riot of feelings that Dean stirs up in Jimmy without even trying.

Still, when it comes down to it, Jimmy would rather be with Dean than anyone else. Case in point: the party.

Jimmy's not much of a party guy, really. He likes people but he feels awkward around them because he's constantly reminded of how badly he slots in with them, being almost old enough to buy his own alcohol and having the kind of medical history that makes most people want to treat him like he's made of glass. But Dean thrives in social situations and drags Jimmy along all the time. It might be a problem if Dean was the type to just abandon Jimmy but he never does. Even on the nights when he could be going home with this cheerleader or that volleyball player, he makes sure Jimmy's set or gets home safely before he does anything.

It can be nice, really, to show up with Dean to these things. The other boy may not be popular in the conventional sense, but everyone knows who he is, all the girls want to date him, and nobody screws with him. Being his best friend means that Jimmy reaps the benefits of most of these things (though not, unfortunately, the girls that Dean seems to have lined up around the block).

So Dean says there's a graduation party at some dude's house and Jimmy doesn’t see the point; at this point, graduating is a huge accomplishment that’s already starting to carry more of the “it’s about time” vibe with it. Besides, Dean’s still got a while yet and Jimmy’s fine with keeping the celebration quiet.

He explains all of this to Dean but it falls on stubborn ears and in the end Dean manages to talk Jimmy around.

It's pretty much standard high school fare even though a good fraction of the attendees are no longer high school students. It's the same packed house, the same suspiciously procurred alcohol, the same music and people and the familiar smell of clove cigarettes and marijuana. They walk in to greetings from a few different people, most of whom slap hands with Dean first before giving Jimmy a cursory nod. Jimmy just nods back and sticks to Dean's side as far as the living room.

"I'm gonna grab a beer," Dean says, leaning in close to Jimmy so he can be heard over the noise. "You good?"

He always asks even though he knows Jimmy doesn't drink. It's almost sweet of him, that he poses the question as respectfully as possible but makes sure Jimmy knows he's not being forgotten or left out. Jimmy nods and waves Dean off toward the kitchen. They'll find their way back to each other eventually. For now, Jimmy figures he'll just sit back and observe, something he got good at when he was a kid stuck in the hospital all the time and has made a habit of since.

There's a quiet, empty corner that's perfect and Jimmy settles in there, watching the way everyone moves around interacting with each other. It still amazes him that he can do this without feeling the same sense of isolation that had consumed him when he was a kid, but he actually likes it, now.

A few people smile and wave and one or two wander over to talk to him. They chat about little things like how long the ceremony that morning was or plans for the summer. None of them really want to start thinking about the future yet so Jimmy doesn't field any questions about college or what he wants to do with his life. He's glad; despite the plan his parents have set for him and the expectations of his other friends and the church and the rest of his family, Jimmy has no idea what he wants. He hasn't even picked a school yet.

A part of him is aware that this is because Dean's been tight-lipped about his plans for the future and Jimmy isn't sure what kind of move to make just yet. He wants to stay as close to Dean as possible; on the other hand, that's stupidly co-dependent of him and he knows he should just suck it up and pick the best accounting program he can track down and do that, like his mom keeps suggesting.

"We've got plenty of time, man," one kid, Greg, says while he lounges against the wall next to Jimmy.

The statement would seem out of the blue for anyone not in their shoes - freshly graduated and all ready to join what their teachers keep calling "the real world".

"Yeah," Jimmy says. "There's no rush."

The bob of Greg's head is slow and heavy and his pupils are blown wide. When he breathes, Jimmy smells pot and it reminds him of Dean.

Everything reminds him of Dean. And it's ridiculous considering there's no need to _be_ reminded. They practically live out of each other's pockets and at this very moment Dean’s around somewhere, probably within shouting distance. Sometimes Jimmy hates that he can't go more than ten minutes without thinking about his best friend. There's no way that's normal.

"Hey!"

Greg and Jimmy look up to see Krista Moore practically skipping across the room. She grins when she draws even with them and tilts her head back toward the stairs.

"The real fun's upstairs. Come on!"

She reaches out to tug them both along by the fabric of their shirts. Jimmy shares a quick, tiny smile with Greg and lets himself be pulled along. Krista is more Dean's friend than his, but she took a liking to Jimmy way back during his first year at a public high school; while everyone else had been simultaneously amused and weirded out by the home-school kid, she’d treated him like any other guy. They've even hung out a few times - mostly as project partners or something, but they get along pretty well.

It's quieter upstairs but the smell of smoke is so thick it’s almost as visible as the haze that fogs up the air. Krista leads the way to the end of the hall where a number of familiar faces have gathered in the master bedroom. Dean’s on the bed with a beer in one hand and a lit joint in the other. He looks calm and relaxed, his limbs sprawled out across the wrinkled duvet and a smile tugging at his mouth. His whole face lights up when they walk in and he beckons Jimmy over onto the bed.

"Hey, man!" he says, making room for Jimmy to sit next to him. "We're playing truth or dare."

"Oh, we are," Jimmy says.

He raises his eyebrows and Dean just grins and tells him, "Yeah. There've been prank calls, nudity, and some seriously fucked up confessions."

"Sounds like I missed all the fun," Jimmy says.

"Nah, you're just in time," Dean says.

He loops an arm around Jimmy's shoulders and pulls him in closer until Jimmy's basically tucked under Dean's shoulder and the two of them are leaning against the headboard.

Dean only ever gets like this when he's stoned. Alcohol makes Dean a little friendlier and, apparently, hornier, but it's pot that gets him all loose and touchy. Not that he goes around touching everyone; it's always just Jimmy and whatever girl Dean's looking to hook up with for the night. There doesn’t seem to be a girl this time. No one in the room is eyeing Dean with interest and he's not flashing his flirty smile around. Jimmy's a little surprised; he'd expected Dean would want to go full-out tonight.

There are about fifteen people in the spacious room and the game ambles its way from person to person. One of the girls is dared to flash everyone and when she refuses she has to do a shot of whiskey and tell an embarrassing secret. She turns the tables on them all, though, when she dares Greg to drop his pants and give them a full-frontal catwalk. Dean falls over laughing when Greg actually does it and Jimmy shakes his head and snickers into his hand.

There are a few more dares and a handful of truths. Jimmy barely pays attention. He feels sleepy and lazy all of a sudden, satisfied in this bone-deep way that he's never felt before. He's here with Dean, finally graduated after all the hard work and catching up and everything that came before it. He feels like he's accomplished something.

"Hey," Dean says close to his ear. "What's got you all smiley?"

Jimmy realizes he is grinning to himself – kind of ridiculously, even – and shrugs.

"Just happy," he says.

Dean beams at him and nudges their shoulders together.

"Me, too."

Jimmy smiles back and opens his mouth to say something else but is cut off when there's a squeal from off to the side. They both look over to see Krista clapping her hands together. She rocks up onto her knees and says, "My turn, my turn! Jimmy, truth or dare?"

Ordinarily Jimmy would be the boring one here and pick truth, not that he even has any interesting truths to share. But he feels a little reckless tonight so he shrugs and does the opposite of what he'd normally do.

"Dare."

"Yes!" Krista practically yells. "Oh, I was hoping you'd do that. I totally dare you to kiss Dean."

And that is . . . completely unexpected. Jimmy blinks at her but Krista isn't done yet.

"And make it a real kiss," she says. "It doesn't count if there's no tongue."

The rest of the room bursts into delighted laughter and good-natured cat-calling.

"How has this never happened before?" Greg wonders and the others echo the sentiment.

Jimmy tunes them out, partly out of necessity but mostly due to shock. He turns to see Dean staring at him with an unreadable look in his eyes and a flush high on his cheeks.

"You don't have to," Dean says. "It's just a stupid dare. I'll do your shot for you if that's what you're worried about."

But that's not why Jimmy hesitates. He feels frozen to the spot not because he's disgusted at the idea but because he wants it so badly. He's never let himself think about it, not even on those nights when Dean's been the only thought to fill his head. Jimmy's placed Dean carefully into the category of best friend and he's slapped the label "straight" on himself very, very firmly. Being a good Christian boy means it's okay to have a best friend like Dean but it's not okay to love him as much as Jimmy does. It's not okay to look at him sometimes and feel heat in his belly or get into his space and walk away with sweaty palms and shot nerves.

It doesn't even happen that often. Most of the time everything is as it's always been. But maybe that's the problem. They've always had this between them - some invisible string of awareness that pulls taut whenever they're apart and remains stretched tight when they're together. There's a part of Jimmy that wonders if he's always wanted this without acknowledging it. He doesn't even want to acknowledge it now.

This would be easier if Dean didn’t somehow make friends with the most open-minded group of teenagers in the tri-state area; a little homophobia would go a long way right now. Instead, the room’s started to hush like everyone’s just waiting to see what’s going to happen. Jimmy doesn't even glance at them; he stares at Dean instead and knows what he should do, what he's supposed to do. But there's something inside, something instinctive that rises unbidden and has Jimmy shaking his head.

"It's just a stupid dare," he repeats, but he says it in reassurance.

Dean's eyes widen, his pupils already blown but his eyes getting somehow darker. He goes still as Jimmy leans in and sucks in a breath when the tips of their noses brush. Jimmy's heart pounds in his chest and he has to pause to consider that this is actually happening. It's a dare and people are watching but he doesn't care because Dean smells good up close despite the sharp tang of beer and pot that lingers between them. They're still for a long moment, Dean's eyes closed tight like he's braced himself for contact.

Jimmy thinks maybe this is a bad idea, not just for himself but for his friend. Dean's as straight as they come. He's probably not comfortable with this and Jimmy can't take advantage of him. He won't. But then Dean murmurs his name like a question, soft and inaudible to anyone but Jimmy, and that's enough.

Their mouths come together harder than Jimmy meant for them to, but it isn't painful. It's just _real_ , the kind of contact that's making itself known, that demands to be _felt_. Dean's lips are smooth and soft against Jimmy's and the touch of them is electric. Jimmy feels it down to his fingertips in a way he thought was impossible, the stuff of romantic fantasy and legend. But no, it happens and it's indescribable.

There aren't words for the rush in Jimmy's body when Dean kisses back and he has to swallow down a small, needy sound when Dean's mouth opens against his and he licks into Jimmy's mouth.

Jimmy's never kissed anyone like this before. Sure, there was his first kiss which was uneventful and awkward, and he made out with his prom date out of obligation, but it was all so routine and casual, not even all that friendly. More like a handshake than anything. This defies all the expectations Jimmy's built up about kissing because it turns out his expectations were tragically low.

Dean leans in and one of his hands is on Jimmy's thigh, rubbing up toward the crease of his hip and then back down in slow sweeps that make Jimmy feel like he's about to go up in flames. Jimmy responds by cupping the back of Dean's neck where his skin is hot to the touch.

They kiss like that for what feels like ages, tongues sliding together while their fingers and hands find innocent places to grip or slide against. Jimmy wants it to go on forever. He wants to climb into Dean's lap and just keep doing this for however long they can make it last. But more than that he wants it to mean something and for a split second, as the kiss draws to a close and Dean presses their lips together once, twice, three times, close-mouthed and sweet, Jimmy wonders. And then they break apart to a volley of hooting, hollering, and applause.

"Wow," Krista says, drawing out the word.

"No shit. That was _intense_ , man. I felt like I was watching gay porn or something," Greg says.

The words don't really register. Jimmy and Dean are too busy looking at each other; Dean's expression is cracked wide open for once, confused and awed and shocked and so vulnerable Jimmy wants to grab him and take him somewhere private, hide him away from everyone else. Jimmy sways forward, not for another kiss but out of a need for some kind of contact or reassurance after that. That movement brings a wall down over Dean's expression. His eyes get hard and his mouth pinches in and he leans away. It's not quite a flinch but it makes Jimmy's stomach knot up in pain.

And then Dean smirks, the mask of the cocky bastard slipping into place. He scoots across the bed, putting some distance between them, and reaches out to give Jimmy's shoulder a shove.

"You've been holding out on us, Jimmy," he says. "That was pretty good. You should try it on someone who can appreciate it, though."

Jimmy doesn't wince but it's a near thing. And then Dean leans across the bed and beckons at another girl.

"Amy, you're up. I dare you to make out with Jimmy."

"That's not how the game works," Amy says, but she smiles and lets Dean tug her up onto the bed.

Dean's eyes are desperate when he looks over at Jimmy and nods at Amy. And Jimmy gets it, okay, he _does_. Dean's world isn't the only one that's been turned upside down and just . . . royally fucked here. But this is Dean's way of fixing things, not Jimmy's. He's not this guy and Dean should know that.

"I'm going home," Jimmy says, ignoring Dean's look and Amy's visible disappointment.

He pushes to his feet and walks out without another word, his mind racing with too many thoughts for him to latch onto and make sense of. His lips tingle and he can still taste marijuana and alcohol on his tongue and his cheeks are tender from the rasp of Dean's stubble. He doesn't feel triumphant anymore. He definitely isn't happy. He gets in his car but doesn't even put the keys into the ignition. He's Dean's ride and even now, after everything, he isn't sure he can just leave. It's like Dean's a magnet and Jimmy's the scattered pieces of metal dust that can't escape no matter how many dark corners they find themselves swept into.

Jimmy closes his eyes and leans his head against the headrest. It feels like it takes Herculeian effort just to lift the keys and he's going to do it, he's going to start the car and leave, when the passenger side door opens and Dean slides into the empty seat.

He doesn't say anything and Jimmy doesn't look at him. They're quiet and for once both of them are determined to keep it that way. Jimmy starts the car and Dean turns on the radio - already tuned to the classic rock station he loves - and they drive across town in silence. Jimmy pulls up in front of Missouri's place first and parks at the curb. He keeps the car idling, expects Dean to jump out without saying anything. Instead a hand closes over Jimmy's wrist and Dean squeezes until Jimmy caves and looks at him.

"Don't, okay? Don't shut me out."

Jimmy stares at him with his mouth hanging open.

"Me?” he finally chokes out. “You actually feel like you have to tell _me_ that?" Dean blinks and Jimmy shakes himself loose so he can wave his arms around in frustration. "I'm not the one who always refuses to talk about whatever's most important and I'm not the one who had some kind of gay panic attack back there and whatever this stupid thing between us is, it's just as much your fault as it is mine so don't _give_ me that. I should be the one begging you not to treat me like all the other girls you hook up with and toss aside like they don't even matter because that's what I am now, right? Another mistake you made when you were drunk."

Dean inhales sharply and when he speaks his voice is a low growl.

"Fuck _you_ , you pious bastard. What do you even know about it, huh? You're a fucking virgin who never makes mistakes because you're too goddamn good to get caught up in the same human shit as all us heathens. But you're not so good, are you? Newsflash, Jimmy: hiding in the closet doesn't make it go away."

"I'm not-" Jimmy starts and then stops because straight boys probably don't enjoy kissing their male best friends as much as he just did and denying it will only give Dean more ammunition.

He can't deal with all of this right now. It hurts too much to even think about it.

"Whatever," Dean says, cutting into the silence before it can grow thick with Jimmy’s unspoken admission. "I'm not like that, okay? _We_ can't be like that."

Jimmy swallows hard because he never even asked and he wouldn't have. He needs Dean as is - his best friend and the most important person in Jimmy's life outside of his family. That kiss was stupid but Jimmy would've taken it back if Dean had given him the chance. He'll take it back now if he has to. But there's something unbearable about knowing that Dean's so upset about it, that he's more concerned about himself here when all Jimmy ever seems to care about these days is Dean and how best to keep him close.

"Get out," Jimmy finally says.

He's tired and he wants to go home and figure this out on his own. Dean being here isn't helping either of them. He expects Dean to fight or say something else. Instead he opens the door and slams it so hard the whole car vibrates with it. Jimmy watches him walk up to the front door and then peels away from the curb and drives home on autopilot.

His house is dark when he pulls up and he's thankful that it's so late. With everyone asleep, he'll be able to get up to his room without being sidetracked by any awkward conversations. He isn't sure he's fit to talk to anyone right now anyway.

The thoughts clamoring at him for attention are too heavy to handle. Jimmy flops down on his bed and stares up at his ceiling until he falls asleep, his mind busy trying to make sense of what happened and figure out how to fix it. The ringing of his phone wakes him up some indeterminable amount of time later and he answers with a quiet greeting before he can give in to the temptation to ignore it completely.

"Can we just pretend tonight never happened?" Dean asks.

His voice sounds small and reminds Jimmy of when they were young and Dean would call late at night just to make sure Jimmy was okay, that nothing had gotten him, that he wasn't hurt. Jimmy always reassured him and stayed on the phone until Dean was nearly asleep, doing everything he could to help his friend feel better. Safer.

This is no different, really. Jimmy swallows hard and makes up his mind. It's not worth fighting over. None of it is even worth stressing about.

"Pretend what never happened?" Jimmy asks.

Dean blows out a breath and says, "Exactly."

And then they stay on the phone just like they used to when they were little, listening to one another breathe until they start to nod off. Dean hangs up first. Jimmy cradles his phone in his hand for a few minutes and then does the same.  



	6. Act One - Chapter Five (Jimmy)

 

 

**Jimmy's P.O.V.**

Dean calls it "The Kidnapping of Jimmy Novak" the first time they take a road trip together and he thinks it's hilarious. Of course. Jimmy rolls his eyes a lot because he's pretty sure it's an inaccurate codename when said kidnapping is A) being committed by his best friend and B) grudgingly endorsed by his own parents.

"Don't be a dick, Jimmy," Dean tells him when Jimmy points this out. "Let me enjoy my victory, here."

"Fine, but if you try to tie me up and toss me in the trunk for effect I _will_ punch you," Jimmy says.

"You only know how to throw a punch because I taught you."

"So you know how much it'll hurt when I do."

Dean laughs and even through the phone the sound is enough to warm Jimmy right to the pit of his stomach. He rolls onto his back and stares at his ceiling while Dean reminds him to pack his sunscreen and get some rest because they hit the road at first light.

"Yes, sir. Whatever you say, sir," Jimmy teases.

The other line goes quiet for a moment and just when Jimmy's about to ask if anything's wrong, Dean speaks.

"I'll see you tomorrow, man," he says.

He hangs up without waiting for Jimmy to respond, which isn't as odd these days as it would've been a little over a year ago.

Their relationship's been different since last summer. “Estranged” probably wouldn’t be a bad word to describe it. They've stopped staying on the phone with each other for hours at a time, and even though they still hang out almost every weekend it's been . . . strained. Jimmy wishes that it was all in his head but he knows Dean, sometimes in a way that borders on eerily instinctive, and he can tell that something's shifted between them. He could lie to himself all he wants about what did it, but he knows that it was that party and the game of truth or dare that changed everything. Despite their agreement to forget it ever happened, it's not like something like that can actually be erased. Both of them would do it if they could, Jimmy knows - Dean because of how uncomfortable it made him and Jimmy because he never meant to ruin anything between them.

There's no getting rid of it, though. It happened. They kissed. And after a summer of alternating between awkwardly avoiding one another and then all but surgically attaching themselves at the hip to make up for that lost time, they'd finally settled into a routine; Jimmy’d had college to focus on and Dean was neck-deep in his all-important junior year and so they had every excuse to spend time apart. They'd taken advantage of it during the week, but Saturdays and Sundays inevitably found them together. Even Dean's girlfriends hadn't been able to keep them apart for long (possibly because they lost Dean's interest so quickly).

They've worked toward mending things since then and this summer's been way better, but things can still get tense. It's like Jimmy just has to say one word and Dean freezes up and closes off. Sometimes it's the other way around and Dean'll get too close to Jimmy, sliding into his personal space like he belongs there, and it's too much. Jimmy pretends that he doesn't feel _something_ for Dean because that's what the situation requires; he can't be gay or bisexual or anything like that, not with his parents. He also can't lose his best friend. But Jimmy's only human and he can't always take it when Dean slips in under all the walls Jimmy's tried to build and sets his pulse to jumping and makes his breath come short and quick.

It's awkward for Jimmy to feel this way and he knows it, but Dean never brings it up and the moments pass with little fanfare. They give each other a little room to breathe and it's fine, sometimes within minutes and sometimes days. It's just another thing they have to work around, like Jimmy's sickness used to be. He just hates that sometimes this feels like a different kind of sickness when he knows innately that it's not. Loving Dean, however that shakes out and whatever it means, is the most natural thing in the world. There shouldn't be anything wrong with it.

He's not sure if that's what prompted Dean to hang up so abruptly. Sometimes Dean's moodiness has nothing to do with memories of last summer. He can be touchy about the smallest things - certain brands of cereal, homework assignments, some smart-mouthed comment he'd ordinarily let slide - and they usually relate back to his family in some way. These days it's about 50/50 as to whether or not Dean's withdrawn because Jimmy's made him uncomfortable or because Jimmy's somehow managed to hit a landmine despite his best attempts to tread lightly.

Whatever it is, there's no use worrying about it. Which is exactly why Jimmy spends half the night rehashing the conversation and trying to figure out if he could have said or done something differently. It usually boils down to the fact that if he'd never kissed Dean in the first place, they wouldn't be here, and _that's_ what Jimmy should've done in the first place: said no.

In the end, all of his stressing out about it is useless and he loses valuable hours of sleep to it; not that he wasn't already wired from excitement, anyway.

He manages a little bit of rest and is up before the sun to finish packing and getting ready. He dozes off on the couch while he waits for Dean and doesn't wake up until he can hear the Impala's distinctive growl as she makes her way up the street. The sound's become familiar to Jimmy in the last year and a half and even though nobody could ever love that car as much as Dean does, Jimmy has his own brand of fondness for her. The car idles at the curb for a moment and then shuts off because while Jimmy's never known Dean to go to the door for a girl, he always does it for Jimmy. He claims it's because he's afraid of what might happen if his parents ever thought he was anything less than a gentleman. Jimmy's parents certainly do appreciate the effort; they're also well-aware of how ungentlemanly Dean can be and have stopped expecting that to influence Jimmy's opinion on him. They love Dean in their own way – despite their insistence that Jimmy try and establish relationships with other people – but Dean still acts like they might forbid him from ever seeing Jimmy again any day now.

His parents rouse themselves long enough to say goodbye when Jimmy knocks on their bedroom door, having already done all the kissing, hugging, and crying the night before.

"Stay out of trouble," his mom says, her voice stern and rough with sleep.

"I will," Jimmy promises.

She nods once and lies back down, seemingly content with his answer. Jimmy closes the door on them and walks downstairs to see Dean's let himself in with the key Jimmy's parents gave him years ago. It had been an odd gesture at the time since they’d seemed alternately delighted with Dean and wary of him; but then, with all the time Jimmy and Dean had spent together and how often Jimmy'd had seizures, migraines, and fainting spells those first few years, it had also been a safety measure. Just in case. Dean's had it ever since and Jimmy still smiles whenever he sees it hanging on the ring next to Dean's own house key and the key to the Impala.

"Hey," Jimmy says as he comes down the stairs.

Dean grins up at him from where he's grabbing Jimmy's sleeping bag. He already has Jimmy's backpack slung over one shoulder and even in the dim light it's obvious he's bright-eyed with excitement.

"You ready to go?" he asks.

Jimmy nods and Dean's grin widens into one of his rare, truly happy smiles. Jimmy smiles back and jumps off the last few steps. He follows Dean out of the house, closes and locks the front door behind him, and jogs to the Impala with excitement singing in his veins. Jimmy gets in while Dean throws his stuff into the trunk and is glancing through a box of cassette tapes when Dean slides into the driver's seat.

"Got everything?"

"Yep," Jimmy says, making an easy final selection.

The Impala rumbles to life and Jimmy slides the tape into the deck. A moment later the strains of Led Zeppelin fill the car. When Jimmy glances sideways, Dean's beaming at him.

"Man, I've taught you well," he says.

Jimmy shrugs, happier with that than he wants to let on, and slips the box back under his seat. Dean's careful as he guides the car onto the street and out of sleepy Lawrence, but he guns it as soon as they hit the highway. They roll the windows down and crank the volume on the stereo and Dean sings along, loud and purposefully obnoxious. They eat up mile after mile while the sun inches higher. Jimmy watches the city disappear behind them and marvels at how happy Dean is like this, behind the wheel of his car and steering them toward their new destination.

It's weird that Jimmy feels so at home with him here and weirder still that he feels this sudden itch just under his skin to . . . keep going. To point the car in one direction and not stop driving until they've crossed a state line or two. He hasn't seen much of the world. For a while there, he didn't think he'd ever get the chance, but here he is. Jimmy probably shouldn't be all that surprised that he kind of wants to share the experience of exploring the country with Dean.

He closes his eyes against the sudden need to drive without stopping and tips his face into the warm air blowing in through the window. A few times he can feel Dean's eyes on him like a glancing touch. Jimmy just smiles to himself and enjoys the ride.

_._

Tuttle Creek State Park isn't even two hours outside of town but Dean takes as scenic a route as possible. They still pull up to the camping grounds early in the day but Dean shrugs and says this just gives them more time to figure out what they want to do.

"I'm thinking a little swimming, a little fishing, just to start off," Dean says.

Half of him's practically inside the trunk so his voice comes out muffled. He'd told Jimmy he could get everything on his own, but it's obvious that he can use a little help, so Jimmy pushes away from where he's been leaning against the door and walks around to the backside of the car.

"Sounds good," Jimmy says. "Here, let me help you."

Dean huffs and says, "It's just this tent. I kind of wedged it in here and now it's hooked on everything."

Jimmy peers over Dean's shoulder into the trunk and laughs.

"It looks like you just shoved all that stuff in there without even _trying_ ," he says, and watches as the back of Dean's neck flushes a dull red.

"It's been a while since I packed shit into a car, so sue me," he mutters.

Jimmy just snickers and nudges Dean over so he can reach in and start untangling the straps of bags from the handles of the cooler and the bulkiness of the tent. He has a feeling Dean only made the whole thing worse with all of his impatient pulling and tugging, but it's nothing Jimmy can't fix. Dean watches closely as Jimmy's fingers work the bags free and it makes Jimmy want to blush for some stupid reason. He thinks he manages to quash the impulse, but keeps his head turned away just in case.

A few minutes later everything's free and loose and they can start pulling bags out - Jimmy's backpack and the two sleeping bags followed by Dean's duffles and the tent. Dean's pulling the cooler out from where he'd wedged it into the back corner of the trunk when Jimmy notices there's something really odd about the trunk. He's never actually looked inside of it before, so it makes sense that this is the first time he's seeing the combination lock on the floor. He can't really think of why it would be there off the top of his head and he's still staring at it curiously when Dean hauls the cooler out with a grunt.

"Earth to Jimmy, do you copy?" Dean asks a moment later, leaning into Jimmy's line of sight and waving a hand in front of his eyes.

Jimmy slaps his hand away and nods at the lock.

"What's that?" he asks, looking up in time to watch the blood drain from Dean's face.

He looks away before Jimmy can catch his eyes and looks down at the floor of the trunk with one of his carefully applied casual expressions.

"Huh," he says. "Never seen it before. Weird. I'll have to ask my dad next time he's in town."

Usually, Jimmy would let himself be distracted by that statement, since the infamous John Winchester has only been in Lawrence a couple of times before and Jimmy's never even seen him. He caught a glimpse of a truck once as it pulled out of Missouri's driveway in the morning and sped off down the street, but outside of the night Dean climbed through his bedroom window, scraped and bleeding and miserable, that was the closest he ever came to meeting Dean's dad. It's a sore spot for both of them; Jimmy doesn't understand how any father could just abandon his son like that and Dean defends John vehemently even though he knows Jimmy's right to dislike him.

This time it’s obvious Dean’s trying to deflect. There's a difference when he brings up John by accident and Jimmy has to step in and either distract him or just offer his silent support. Dean doesn't have that same haunted look in his eyes he gets when that happens; oh, he looks spooked, but it's for a different reason and there's something in Jimmy's gut that pushes him to press the issue.

"Dean," he says.

It's just Dean's name, but Jimmy says it with as much quiet force as he can and when Dean looks up, his eyes are wide and he has his lips pulled behind his teeth. It's an uncharacteristically vulnerable look for him and Jimmy frowns in confusion.

"What is it?" he asks again. "Dean?"

Dean gets so quiet for a moment that the only things Jimmy can hear outside of their hushed breathing are the bird calls in the surrounding trees. The air gets tense and heavy but all Jimmy can do is wait. He waits while Dean casts his eyes around like he's searching for a lie and he waits while Dean deflates when he can't. After a moment Dean rubs the back of his neck and then blows out a harsh breath.

"Fuck. Fine. You really want to know?"

Jimmy crosses his arms over his chest. "Because I would have asked if I didn't?" he retorts.

Dean's mouth pinches and he glares at Jimmy.

"It's not a pretty story, okay? And once I tell it there's no going back."

He sounds so serious that Jimmy isn't sure whether or not he should be freaking out. _Dean_ is, or at least he's as close to freaking as Jimmy can ever remember seeing him, which means that one of them has to stay calm here. Jimmy knows that the easiest thing would be to take it back and say he doesn't really want to know – it's just a stupid lock. Mysteriously located or not, it isn't his business anyway.

But the two of them are way past that. After everything they've been through, Jimmy's business is as much Dean's as Dean's is his. It's more than just being best friends; they're _connected_ in some way that Jimmy thinks might be cosmic. He'll never tell Dean that because he knows he'll just get laughed at, but he can't help but think Dean has to feel it, too.

So, easy or not, Jimmy can't let this go.

"Just tell me there's not a dead body hidden in there," Jimmy says.

Dean snorts but it's a humorless sound and he shakes his head. "Nah. Not any literal ones, anyway."

"Ominous," Jimmy says.

Dean just narrows his eyes. "Just remember that I warned you," he says.

While Jimmy watches, Dean glances around as if someone might be watching and then leans over the trunk, grabs the lock, and thumbs in the combination. It pops with a tiny sound and it's almost imperceptible but Jimmy's looking closely enough that he can see the way Dean's hands shake as he opens it. He pauses and then reaches down to hook his fingers under the flap that makes up the floor and flip it up, propping it into place. He refuses to look at Jimmy as he steps back, just gazes out at the treeline and tries not to look like he's holding his breath.

Jimmy looks from the trunk to Dean and back again, not quite sure what to make of what he's seeing.

 _Guns_ , Jimmy's mind registers. _There are_ guns _in there._

He's never even seen one outside of a movie or TV show before and Jimmy's surprised at how sobering the sight of one is. But it's not just firearms. There are knives - long and short- and what looks like a machete. A silver flask and, of all things, a string of _rosary beads_ are tucked in among all the glinting metal. Everything is strapped into place but Jimmy notices a few empty slots where weapons are obviously supposed to go. His mind registers all of this but none of it makes sense. He blinks and then looks over at Dean.

"What am I looking at, Dean?"

Dean sighs and the shrug of his shoulders is tight, almost reluctant.

"The tools of the family business," he says.

Jimmy pauses and then asks, "Are you guys assassins or something?"

This time, when Dean laughs, it's hysterical but tinged with real humor and he actually has to bend over at the waist from the force of it. Jimmy isn't really sure what's so funny about the question; it's not like there are a whole lot of other options here and he's not going with "serial killer" if only because he's never witnessed Dean torturing animals before. When Dean straightens he shakes his head and steps up to the trunk again. When he speaks, his voice is pensive and a little nostalgic.

"Nothing like that," he says. "It's . . . you're not even gonna believe me, man. You're gonna think I'm fuckin' crazy."

Maybe that would be true of anyone else, but Jimmy would believe almost anything Dean says. It's exactly that kind of blind faith that scares him sometimes, not because of what it is but because of how natural it feels.

"Maybe, but I'm pretty sure I won't," Jimmy says.

Dean's expression is unimpressed but he chews it over for a minute and then says, "We hunt things."

Jimmy looks back down, not at the guns but the other objects in the trunk – knives and a machete. The rosary beads Jimmy locks on last, overlooking them because they’re so small, innocuous, and yet unable to glance away once he does. They just don’t fit in with the sharpened blades and the firearms. Jimmy stares at them and thinks _Dean has rosary beads and I’ve never even been able to convince him to come to a church service. Not once._

"Things,” Jimmy says.

Not animals. _Things_. Jimmy frowns in the beat Dean takes before answering.

"Yeah. Like, creature-type things. Scary things."

He doesn't elaborate and Jimmy doesn't prompt him, just stares at the guns and that flask and feels _something_ on the edges of his awareness, something that tells him he knows what Dean means if he just concentrates hard enough. Jimmy's so lost in that feeling that he almost misses the way Dean curses and kicks at a rock.

"I don't want to tell you this, Jimmy."

Jimmy lifts his eyes and the look Dean pins him with is desperate and resigned. He seems lost and Jimmy would do anything to bring him back from that. He steps closer until he can practically feel how tight Dean's currently wound up.

"You already showed me," he says. "I think you have to tell me."

Dean squeezes his eyes shut and doesn't open them when he speaks.

"There's some really awful shit out there, like these things just crawled out of our nightmares and came to life. Only they're real and some of them have always been real and they hurt people. Kill 'em." He gets quiet and Jimmy bites back all the words that sit heavy on his tongue, goes back to waiting. "One of 'em got my mom," Dean says. "That's why I know the truth about what's out there. After she died, Dad wanted to find the thing that killed her. He took me and Sammy with him."

Jimmy frowns and isn't sure what to ask first: what happened to Dean's mom? Why did his dad think it would be a good idea to go after what killed her with his children in the backseat?

"What's out there?" he asks instead.

Dean winces before he answers.

"Dude, what's _not_ out there? Dad hunted a lot of ghosts. Vengeful spirits, you know? But there was other stuff. I didn't get to go with him. I had to watch Sammy but he taught me how to use all of this." He nods at the weapons in the trunk. "You grew up with your parents telling you the monsters in your closet aren't real. My Dad told me they were and then showed me how to put them down."

Jimmy bites down on his lip and tries to absorb all the information. It's not as difficult as it should be and that feeling tickling the corners of his mind gets a little more insistent. Jimmy rubs at one of his temples and then asks the one question he really doesn't want the answer to.

"Dean . . . what happened to your brother?"

Dean's mouth twists in some parody of amusement, like he knew Jimmy was gonna ask. And then he shrugs.

"I don't even remember. It's fuzzy. Like the memory's been scrubbed over or something. Dad got a lead on the thing that killed mom and it was me and Sammy alone, like always. And . . . I think something broke in and I tried to save him, I swear I did. I must have. It was my _job_ to protect him. But I fucked up somehow and all I really remember is blood. There was a ton of it. Sam was so friggin' little. Tiny. I don't know how he bled that much."

He keeps his head turned away but Jimmy can tell he's trying not to cry. Jimmy wants to reach out and touch him, offer some kind of comfort, but he can't make himself move. He's rooted to the spot, held there by what Dean's told him and by a sudden buzz in his ears.

"Dad said it was the same thing that got Mom and he was going to find it and kill it." Dean says. "But he didn't take me with him. I figure he was disappointed in me for not taking care of Sam."

Jimmy shakes his head and says, with surprising conviction, "It wasn't your fault."

Dean snorts. "Thanks for the vote of confidence."

"I'm serious," Jimmy says, and he isn't sure how he knows this. He just _does_. "It wasn't. What happened . . . you couldn't have stopped it."

Dean's silence is skeptical, bordering on furious, and Jimmy knows he's taking a risk in pushing but he can't stop himself.

"Think about it. Has your dad ever found whatever did it?" Dean hesitates and then shakes his head and Jimmy plows on. "Right. He couldn't find it before, he can't find it now. Does he know how to kill it? Does he even know what it is?"

"That's not the point," Dean says in a tight voice.

"Maybe not. But I'm right about this, Dean."

"You're crazy."

Jimmy frowns. "I don't think you're crazy for telling me the boogeyman is real but you think _I'm_ crazy for telling you it's not your fault that your brother died?"

"You weren't there!" Dean yells. "What the fuck do you even _know_ about it, huh?"

Jimmy opens his mouth to reply but the words get lost when there's a sudden spike of pain in his head. He thinks, for a terrifying moment, that it's the tumor again. But no, the tumor's gone. It's been gone for a while. A real miracle, the doctors all said.

 _Miracle_.

He presses the heels of his palms into his eyes and groans in pain.

_You know what this is._

The thought rises to his mind, unbidden and not just talking about the pain or about Dean's story, not just talking about any one thing in particular.

_You know._

And he does. In that moment, Jimmy knows everything and can see it all with a clarity that cuts right to the bone and drops him to his knees. He's back in that dilapidated cabin with Dean and Sam. He’s there as Sam dies and . . .

And it doesn't happen like Dean thinks.

Disgust curls up in Jimmy's stomach just in time for the memory to give way to another, to Jimmy himself – only he's not Jimmy, he's someone else. Some _thing_ else. There's bright light and hideous pain, like being ripped apart, and a crash. Sickness. Confusion.

Dean and a miracle and a _life_.

"You're okay. You'll be fine. Just calm down, okay?"

Dean's voice slams into him with enough force to drive away everything else.

"Come on, Jimmy. I've got you. You're okay."

There are hands cradling his head - Dean's hands - and the ground is hard-packed beneath him. The air smells earthy and clean, infused with a purity that sings. And mingled with it is Dean's smell, the spice of his deodorant and the sweetness of his shampoo and the salt-tang of his skin.

"Jimmy?"

Dean's face hovers above him when he blinks his eyes open. His expression is scared and sweet, fractured so that something that looks a lot like love seeps out through the cracks. It's like taking in Dean's face for the first time, how beautiful it is from the freckles to the curve of his mouth and the ridge of his jaw and those _eyes_ , a riotous blend of green and gold like the sun peeking through rustling treetops. It's important in that moment to memorize these little details and so he does. Dean stares down at him, quiet and still.

"Dean."

The voice that comes out of his body is lower than he's ever heard it but it's also his voice. His human voice. Jimmy Novak's. He is Jimmy Novak, now.

"Yeah?" Dean murmurs.

The simple act of lifting a hand to Dean's cheek seems so monumental because even though Jimmy's touched Dean before, _Castiel_ has not. Not like this. And that's who he really is. Castiel is the presence at the back of Jimmy's mind. He was the other being present the night that Sam Winchester was killed and Dean's life changed forever. He was an angel of the Lord and now he's this.

He's Jimmy. He's Dean's.

Castiel brushes his thumb over the gentle slope of Dean's cheekbone and feels so much more than just the warmth and smoothness of skin. He feels the rush of blood, the strength of bone, and beneath that the spark of Dean's soul. Without the fullness of his Grace it's impossible to see it. It should be impossible to so much as feel it this keenly, but a lot of things that should be impossible just aren't when Dean's around.

There's too much to say but words seem inadequate. Castiel wants to tell Dean that he loves him, trusts him, believes in him. He wants to say that it's all been worth it because of Dean. He wants to make sure that Dean knows he’ll always be there and that no matter what happens, Castiel will do whatever it takes to keep him safe. But he can't find a way to tell Dean any of it.

All he can do is manage a smile before everything goes dark.

_._

Jimmy's stretched out in the backseat when he comes to, but he isn't sure how he knows that when everything else feels so fuzzy. He blames it on the movement of the ground beneath him and the sound of the Impala's engine - both obvious clues that he must have picked up on subconsciously.

His head aches like it hasn't done in years and he groans as he sits up.

"Whoa, whoa, whoa," Dean says from the front seat.

Dean cranes his head around long enough to glare at Jimmy and then turns back to the road. "If you don't lay back down I will pull this car over and make you."

Jimmy rolls his eyes and leans forward. It's impossible to tell where they are when they're driving through one of Kansas' many flat stretches of land but if Jimmy had to guess he'd say they're probably about halfway back to Lawrence by now.

"Seizure?" he asks.

Dean's grip tightens on the steering wheel and he shakes his head. "Don't think so. I thought it was just a migraine or something at first but then you fell over. It was weird. Not like before. Why? You don't remember?"

"Not a thing," Jimmy answers.

That's pretty par for the course when he has an attack. The problem with that is, he hasn't had an attack or fit or nosebleed or headache since high school. They'd gotten less and less severe, and then they'd stopped completely. Jimmy's terrified for a moment that maybe the tumor's back and worse than before, but as soon as the thought takes hold, it’s brushed away. That's not what this was. Jimmy may not remember it, but he knows that much.

"We don't have to go back," Jimmy says after a moment.

"Yeah, I'm pretty sure we do," Dean says. "What if you're sick?"

"I'm _fine_ ," Jimmy says.

His head aches a little but not bad; there's just a dull pressure behind his eyelids that's already started to fade. Otherwise he feels okay. A little weird inside of his own skin, kind of like the day after the doctor told him the tumor was gone and he was perfectly healthy. Jimmy had woken up the following morning feeling like a stranger inside his body and he feels a bit like that, now. He should probably be following Dean's lead here, just to be safe, but he's not scared of how he feels. He's not even scared of what just happened to him. Curious, maybe, but not scared.

"You're not fine," Dean says. "And we're not having a discussion about this. I'm taking you home. Actually, I'm taking you to the doctor and _then_ I'm taking you home."

"You don't have to mother me all the time, you know. You could try trusting me once in a while. I know when I'm sick and when I'm not."

Dean goes quiet and then veers off the road, skidding onto the shoulder and slamming the brake. Jimmy loses his balance and falls back into the seat. He huffs out a sigh at Dean's tendency toward the dramatic and waits for the other boy to open his door, stalk around the front of the car, and then jerk the back door open.

"I already told you you're not allowed to tie me up," Jimmy says. "And I'm pretty sure there isn't room for me in the trunk with all those guns."

Jimmy isn't usually flippant with Dean. He's not usually flippant period, but he can already tell Dean's ready to start yelling at Jimmy about taking care of himself and he's probably going to bring up seizures and fainting spells from _years_ ago to make his point and Jimmy doesn't want to go through all of that. He just wants to spend the next two days with Dean. He wants to go fishing even though he's sure he'll hate it and he wants to go swimming even though Dean's going to silently fume for weeks after when he's all freckles and barely any suntan. He wants to fall asleep next to Dean in their tent. If things get awkward, Jimmy doesn't care. He wants that. He wants everything. He's never been so sure of it before, has always second-guessed himself, but right now he doesn't care.

Hell, if Dean wants to yell at him Jimmy will even take that but he isn’t going to lose out on this weekend.

"You're such an asshole, you know that?"

Jimmy opens his mouth to reply but Dean cuts him off by reaching into the car and tugging until Jimmy has to either slide out or yank Dean into the backseat with him. Jimmy decides to go with it and makes his way out of the car. The sun's so bright overhead that Jimmy has to blink a few times to be able to see without his eyes watering. By the time his vision clears, Dean's moved into his space which means he's pretty frustrated. Dean's avoided getting this close to Jimmy for over twelve months.

"You're gonna shut the fuck up and let me take care of you or I swear I'll-"

"What?" Jimmy cuts in. "Knock me out?"

Dean's eyes narrow but his tough-guy facade cracks just enough for Jimmy to see that the problem isn't Jimmy's lack of cooperation. It's the depth of Dean's worry for him.

"Why are you fighting me on this?" Dean asks. "You blacked out back there. You don't even remember what happened. What if it's back? You could be really, really sick right now."

"I think I'd know if that's what this was."

"You _think_ you'd know, but I'm not willing to take a chance on you being wrong."

Jimmy isn't sure how to get Dean to believe him. He's always found Dean's need to look after him almost compulsive, but he understands now why Dean gets particularly stubborn about it. Anyone would've reacted the same way after what happened to his brother. Jimmy doesn't mind that. After all those years where Dean was the only friend Jimmy had and definitely the only kid capable of taking care of him, it's still comforting to know that's Dean's initial response. But this isn't his choice to make.

"Nothing's going to change between now and Monday," Jimmy says.

"You don't know that."

"Maybe not." Jimmy pauses and then catches Dean's eyes with his. "But there's nowhere else I'd rather be right now. If someone told me right now that I only had a week to live I'd want to spend all of it with you. I don't even care."

Dean swallows but he doesn't move or look away. Jimmy glances down at the ground. Their feet are only a couple of inches apart, Dean's dusty boots a sharp contrast to Jimmy's faded sneakers. The sight makes Jimmy smile for some reason he can't really explain.

"You're an idiot," Dean says.

"And you're worrying too much. Come on, I hate hospitals. I'd rather be fishing. If I'm dying do you really want to deny me a weekend in the great outdoors?"

Dean shoves at him but he's smiling when Jimmy looks up. "Don't even joke about that."

"Then don't tell me what to do."

They stare at each other and after a few seconds Dean rolls his eyes. "Fine. But don't you dare scare me like that again.

Jimmy grins at him. "I'll do my best."

 

The entire process of pitching the tent involves a colorful, innuendo-laden commentary from Dean. Jimmy tries to exude disapproval and long-suffering but he's laughing so hard it hurts by the time they actually get the thing up. Dean looks entirely too proud of himself so Jimmy grabs a dirt clod and throws it at him. Years of playing catch in Missouri's backyard have given Jimmy pretty decent aim and it bounces right off Dean's forehead. The way his grin twists in shock and his eyes go so wide the pupils are surrounded by a thick ring of white just sets Jimmy off again.

"Your _face_ ," Jimmy says.

"I can't believe you just did that," Dean shoots back.

Jimmy presses his lips together to try and hold in the laughter but then Dean's grabbing up a handful of clods and starts pelting Jimmy with them. They'd looked for a clear area to set the tent up so Jimmy has to make a run for it while the hard-packed bullets of dirt hit him across the shoulders. They sting and every time one connects Jimmy's laughter turns to a yell. He finds a ton of them a few feet away and scoops a handful of his own, spinning so he can return fire.

"Fuck you!" Dean yells around a laugh of his own.

He throws his arms up to protect his face and Jimmy grabs another handful before he turns to run again. They chase each other around their campsite throwing clods of dirt and yelling at each other. Jimmy runs out about the same time as Dean does and eyes what's left of the source of the clods across the clearing.

Dean follows his line of sight,, and as soon as Jimmy makes his move he darts forward. Jimmy feels solid arms close around his waist seconds before he hits the ground hard enough for it to knock the wind out of him. He thinks he might be giggling as Dean wrestles him down and gets him pinned. When Jimmy opens his eyes again, Dean's astride his lap with his hands holding both of Jimmy's wrists to the ground. They're both breathless and panting and Dean's silhouette is the only thing keeping the sun from burning Jimmy's eyes.

He can barely make out the white of Dean's smile but he can see Dean's chest heaving against the fabric of his shirt and it's easy to imagine the way his eyes must be sparkling.

"And that's how you beat a boy at a man's game," Dean says.

Jimmy wiggles but Dean's solid, pleasantly heavy, and apparently not inclined to move. He snickers and says, "Yeah, you showed me."

"Damn right I did."

Jimmy grins and relaxes into Dean's hold. "At least you can stop worrying now. I'm pretty sure if I were dying all that running would've finished me off."

Dean's grip gets almost painfully tight. "Ha-fucking-ha. You're a riot," he says.

"I'm serious," Jimmy says.

He feels a tingle travel up his arm and realizes Dean's started to absently sweep one thumb over the underside of his wrist. Jimmy holds his breath and goes still, hoping Dean won't stop. It's probably silly to want to soak up a touch like this, but Jimmy's willing to take whatever he can get.

"Whatever," Dean mumbles. "I guess you're okay. You need to exercise more, though. Listen to how out of shape you are."

"Not all of us _enjoy_ waking up early and running ten miles before breakfast."

He can make out the edge of Dean's grin and wishes the sun weren't directly behind the other boy so Jimmy could see all of him.

"Gives me excellent stamina, though, Jimmy," Dean says. "You'll know what I'm talking about if you ever get laid."

Jimmy rolls his eyes. "Don't start that again."

Dean lets go of his wrists to hold his hands up in front of his body.

"I'm just sayin'. What are you, now? A twenty-two-year-old virgin? It just ain't natural."

"There's nothing wrong with waiting," Jimmy says.

They've had this argument about a hundred times since Dean got his first blowjob when he turned fourteen. He doesn't get what the big deal is about waiting for sex and likes to offer to help Jimmy pop his cherry just to get it over with. He'd stopped talking about it for a while after the kiss, but it's come up with the same sort of regularity the topic used to have in the last few months.

"Come on," Dean says. "Who are you even saving it for?"

It's ridiculous how quickly Jimmy comes up with the answer, but he's not about to say it out loud. Still, Dean goes still above him like he can read Jimmy's mind. It's not even like Jimmy's done it on purpose or anything. He's had fantasies about girls, though they’ve tapered off to almost nothing, and only a few about guys other than Dean. He hasn't even let himself think about Dean that way very often; the dreams he can't control but everything else he can and he does. It feels wrong to picture his friend naked or daydream about kissing him when that's not what he wants. Jimmy's been waiting for so long it's never occurred to him that it might be for someone more specific than a hypothetical future wife.

Now he knows.

Dean's weight is like a hot band across Jimmy's hips all of a sudden and neither of them seem to want to move closer or away. It's like shifting at all will make this moment real and force Jimmy's hand. He knows it's up to him to answer the question correctly if he doesn't want to ruin everything right here and now. It aches to know he can't just say what he wants, but the pain isn't as keen as it might have been a few weeks ago or even this morning. It just feels like patience is settling into his bones and staying his hand, like he knows no matter what happens, what he says or doesn't say, he and Dean will always belong to each other and find themselves in moments like this, quiet and heavy and waiting for something to slot into place.

"Jesus," Jimmy says. "I'm saving it for our Lord and Savior Jesus Christ."

Dean barks out a laugh and says, "Good luck with that one."

Jimmy pretends to look affronted. "Hey, our love is pure."

"Exactly. Pure is boring. Sex is awesome. And you? Are a nerd."

Jimmy reaches up to dig his fingers into Dean's side. The other boy isn't particularly ticklish but he's pretty sensitive between his ribs and he jerks away with another laugh. The momentum takes Dean off of Jimmy's lap and he rolls smoothly onto his feet before holding out his hands. Jimmy takes them and lets Dean pull him up.

"You're a mess," Dean says, giving Jimmy's shoulders a friendly dusting.

Jimmy returns the favor, reaching out to ruffle a few sticks out of Dean's hair. Dean smiles and then reaches up to drag his finger over Jimmy's cheek; the way his calluses rasp rough against Jimmy’s skin makes his breath catch. There’s a hint of a flush on Dean’s cheeks when he pulls his hand away but he just shrugs when Jimmy blinks at him.

"Dirt everywhere," he says.

Jimmy nods and smiles in thanks. "Swimming?"

"Definitely."

They wander over to their bags to grab their trunks and shake off as much dust and dirt as possible before climbing into the Impala and driving off toward the swimming beach. Jimmy feels Dean's eyes on him most of the way. Neither of them mention it but Dean doesn't stop looking and Jimmy doesn't ask him to.  



	7. Act One - Chapter Five (Dean)

 

**Dean's P.O.V.**

The swimming beach is crowded with campers when they walk up; men, women, and children of all sizes run, lounge, and splash around in the water. Dean spots an empty patch of sand a ways up and heads for it with Jimmy a step behind. They have to weave their way through a field of laid out towels and coolers and beach umbrellas. Dean's not really looking forward to sharing the water with a bunch of snot-nosed kids and fat, old men with hairy backs, but it's not like he has a choice.

"You look like you just ate a lemon," Jimmy says from behind him when he looks back once.

"And you sound like somebody's grandma," Dean says over his shoulder.

Jimmy's laugh is soft in response but it makes Dean feel accomplished. He almost can't believe the turn the day's taken - from the emotional whatever that had accompanied spilling his life story to Jimmy's fit and now this. Dean had been convinced the day was a complete wash, let alone the weekend they'd had planned. Now everything's back on track and while there's a part of him that's wary and waiting for the other shoe to drop, mostly he's unwilling to look a gift horse in the mouth here.

"This looks good," Dean says once they're far enough away from the edge of the crowd to have a little space but not so far that they're edging onto the dirtier stretches of sand.

They lay out their towels and kick off their sandals. The sand's gritty and hot underneath Dean's feet but he curls his toes in it anyway. He knows that this isn't a real beach, that it's not the same as going to an ocean, but it still reminds him of the time Dad had pulled over just as the sun was rising to Dean and Sam could see the Pacific for the first time. It had been warm despite the early hour, the spray of water cool in contrast, and there had been no one around for miles. Dean and Sam had kicked off their shoes and chased each other down the beach. Sam had still been so little, his legs short and not able to keep up, but Dean was used to holding back so he wouldn't leave Sam behind. They'd played and laughed and jumped on each other and Dad had bitched about sand all over the upholstery for a week after. But he'd smiled every time, like it was something funny instead of something to really be mad about.

It hurts to remember, but Dean smiles anyway. That had been a really good day.

He jumps when he feels Jimmy's hand at his waist. It's just a brush of fingers but Dean can feel it all the way to his toes.

"You okay?" Jimmy asks.

Dean looks over at him and realizes that for the first time in his life, if he were to say no there would finally be someone there to talk about it with. Missouri's always been open to Dean and she's the closest thing to a mom he's ever had, but he's never known how to talk to her and the words are always so hard to say, anyway. He doesn't know how to admit he misses Sam or sometimes he hates his Dad or he's afraid that one day he won't remember ever even having a mom and Missouri wouldn't understand. Or maybe she would be but it would feel like cheating, like she only knew because she's psychic.

Jimmy's the first person Dean's even told about that night and he's the only person who's ever told Dean that what happened wasn't his fault. Dean wants to be able to brush both things off like they're nothing; instead they completely rearranged something inside of him. When he meets Jimmy's eyes, he sees nothing but understanding and fondness and he wants to let himself fall into that. For once, Dean wants to allow someone else to hold _him_ up.

Now's not the time, though. Dean shakes it all off and grins at his friend.

"Fine," he says.

Jimmy looks skeptical but he doesn't push it. Instead he glances toward the water and Dean nods, stripping off his shirt.

"Race you," he says, and then he takes off without giving Jimmy a chance to catch up.

Dean hits the water first; it's cool against his shins, warmed by the midday sun and temperatures that have climbed up into the 90s. It's a relief to be in the water, especially after all the running around and stress of earlier. He turns around just in time for Jimmy to crash into him, sending them both flying back and under the water. Dean surfaces a moment later, shaking his hair out of his eyes and squinting through soggy vision at where Jimmy's standing right in front of him. They're both dripping wet now; Jimmy's usual messy mop of hair is plastered against his forehead and neck and his eyes are a more distracting blue than the sky above them or the water they're in.

"What was that for?" Dean asks, smacking Jimmy's shoulder.

"You cheated. It was payback."

Dean frowns and then surges forward and jumps on Jimmy to try and dunk him. Jimmy folds easily and goes underwater with a yell. When he comes back up he looks even more water-logged than before and it makes Dean grin. Jimmy retaliates by jumping at him but Dean's too quick and so much bigger that he just takes Jimmy down with him. They laugh and shout as loud as the kids around them but eventually they give up on attacking each other and swim out a little farther.

It's ironic but Jimmy was the one who taught Dean how to do this. It was probably the third or fourth summer they knew each other, when Jimmy's health had improved enough that there was no risk of him having a fit and drowning at the local pool. Dean could propel himself through the water okay, mostly by copying what he saw people doing on the Olympics and stuff, but he couldn't really swim well. Jimmy had shown him how to tread water and float and do more than just flail around to get from point A to point B.

Dean's shown Jimmy how to do a lot of things, but sometimes Dean remembers just how much Jimmy's taught him in return. He likes it, the fact that this relationship isn't as lopsided as he knows it looks to outsiders. They have hidden depths, him and Jimmy.

They're quieter out where it's deep; they dip and dive and resurface without saying much but they never stray far from each other, and every time Dean comes up for air, his eyes find Jimmy right away. After a while, Dean flops over onto his back and just floats, eyes closed while he soaks in the sun and relaxes into the cool cradle of the water. He feels so content, as close to happy as he thinks he's been since Sammy died, and all of the crazy shit from this morning feels far away.

"Hey," Jimmy says as he swims up. "We should go before you burn and I starve."

"I'm not gonna burn," he says.

"Fine, but I _am_ starving," Jimmy shoots back.

Dean's stomach chooses that moment to gurgle in sympathy and he remembers they haven't actually eaten in hours.

"All right, quit whining," he says.

Jimmy flicks water at him and swims away before Dean can decide if he wants to retaliate or not. He opts not to; he feels loose and warm and way too lazy for another water fight. The swim to shore is slow and Dean feels like he could collapse and sleep for a few hours by the time he gets his feet under him and wades to short. Jimmy's a few feet ahead of him and Dean has to pause at the sight of him pushing his hair out of his eyes and stepping out of the water.

It's not like Dean hasn't seen Jimmy shirtless before it's just that it's been years and he's definitely never seen him like this. Jimmy's pale but already a shade darker from their time in the sun and his skin looks smooth and soft, glistening under the bright summer light. He always seems so skinny in his clothes and Dean was kind of expecting your classic nerd physique - scrawny and more resembling a fish-belly than anything, pallid and still holding onto the sickness from his youth. Instead, Jimmy's long and lithe. He's not really muscular but he's not skin and bones, either. The line of his spine and the breadth of his shoulders, somehow both delicate and strong-looking, are distracting. And then he turns around to wait for Dean.

He's not gay, really. But this is different. It's Jimmy. And Dean hadn't really been prepared for the flat planes of his belly or those _collarbones_ or the way the cut of his hips makes Dean want to reach out and touch. There's light muscle definition all over, like maybe he's more active than Dean gives him credit for and, seriously, can those trunks sit any lower?

Dean flushes when he realizes he's staring and he forces himself to continue on out of the water like he wasn't just checking out his best friend even though, holy shit, he was _just checking out his best friend_. Except as Dean draws closer he can feel Jimmy's eyes sliding over him from head to toe in a way that makes his stomach heat up and his palms get sweaty.

Having someone check him out isn’t a new experience but Dean can’t remember the last time someone took their time with it like this. He’s not entirely sure anyone’s ever actually looked at him like this period. Jimmy's gaze lingers on Dean's abs and his hips, slides up to his shoulders and by the time Dean draws up close, those eyes are on Dean's lips. Dean stops a couple of steps away and licks them, more a reflex than anything; the way Jimmy's eyes get dark and a little lost is satisfying when it should feel creepy or wrong, and all of a sudden Dean has absolutely no clue which way is up.

He can't even think of anything to say and he's reluctant to break the moment, so he hauls Jimmy up against his side with one arm and walks them over to their towels. They opt to lie out, relax for a few minutes and let the sun dry them off. Dean thinks it might be because Jimmy's as reluctant as he is to leave, regardless of how hungry they are or how much there is left for them to do this weekend. They lay on their towels, side-by-side, and let the warm air and sunlight chase the water from their skin.

There's not much space between them and when Dean splays his fingers in the sand, they brush up against Jimmy's. The pads of Jimmy's fingers skim across Dean's, shifting until they're interlocked and barely brushing.

Dean closes his eyes, takes a deep breath, and doesn't move.

 

  
  
 

  
Lunch is chips, soda, and the sandwiches Missouri made for them. They find a scenic spot halfway between the beach and their campsite to eat and then decide to go exploring for a bit. They end up walking around, goofing off and shooting the shit, until the sun starts to set. By the time they make it back to their tent, Dean can already feel the tight, hot stretch of his skin threatening to explode into full-blown pain. Jimmy keeps shooting him looks like he knows but Dean's determined not to complain about it; the last thing he needs is Jimmy hitting him with an "I told you so".

They have spaghettios and crackers for dinner - a truly gourmet experience, Jimmy teases. Dean shoves at him and says they'll eat like kings tomorrow night.

"Whatever you say," Jimmy says.

"None of that negative crap," Dean tells him. "We're gonna catch more fish than we’ll know what to do with."

Jimmy raises his eyebrows and repeats, "Whatever you say."

They clean up in comfortable silence and then climb into their tent. It's not much - just a little dome that doesn't allow a lot of room for movement - and the ground beneath them isn't exactly comfortable. But they’d put a groundcloth down under the tent floor and their sleeping bags are large and plush.

They zip up the tent but leave the window flaps open to let in some air and take advantage of the light of the full moon. Cozy isn't a word Dean uses often, or ever, but that's what this feels like. They're getting settled in, the events of the day catching up and making their movements sleepy and sluggish. It would be perfect except Dean sort of feels like he wants to peel all of his skin off and jump into the lake to soothe the burn. He keeps shifting uncomfortably which only makes the fabric of his t-shirt drag across his skin in new, interesting, and very unpleasant ways.

"You burned, didn't you?" Jimmy says after watching Dean squirm around for a few minutes.

"What? No, I'm fine."

"Yeah, you burned," Jimmy says.

Dean frowns and wants to deny it again, but he really can't. He's probably red as a fucking lobster right now anyway and even if the light from their lantern is dim and doesn’t allow Jimmy to make out those kinds of details, he’s been with Dean all day. He probably noticed before Dean did. Jimmy shakes his head and then reaches for his backpack and rummages around inside before he emerges with a familiar-looking bottle.

"You brought lotion on a camping trip," Dean says. "That's . . . so girly, man."

"Uh-huh, and you're about to appreciate it," Jimmy tells him.

Dean isn't sure what he's planning on doing with that bottle and frowns when Jimmy scoots closer. Jimmy huffs out a sigh. "It'll make you feel better. Come on, take your shirt off."

"No way!" Dean says.

He kind of sputters it, actually, but he can't help it. He's not about to let Jimmy lather him up with that stuff. He's fine, seriously. Who can't handle a little sunburn?

"Dean."

"Answer's still no."

"Would you stop being a stubborn idiot all the time and just take your damn shirt off?"

The force behind Jimmy's words makes Dean pause. They've been really careful around each other lately; they don't fight like they used to because they try to keep things as casual as possible. It's hard to get into an argument when you're busy accommodating a person just to keep him at arm's length. Jimmy's responded to it all with the kind of politeness that he usually reserves for his church friends and it's been weird and unnatural, but at least it's been friendly. Platonic and easy and not like before.

Not like the kiss.

Jimmy's been more and more persistent about things all day, though - first with asking Dean about the trunk, then with insisting they come back here, and now this. Dean wants to be annoyed or dismayed but he's just _relieved_. He's missed this more than he would ever say – so much that he's almost willing to pick a fight right here and now just to see Jimmy get riled up.

But as soon as the thought crosses his mind, he realizes that's not really necessary. The air between them is already thick, full of little nitroglycerine moments ready to react to the smallest change in their environment. Dean knows that no matter what he does there's some kind of risk, but he recognizes right then which one he's willing to take. He doesn't say a word, just reaches down to grip the hem of his shirt and strip it off.

The air isn't cool but his skin prickles anyway, with awareness and anticipation. Jimmy stares at him for a moment and then looks down and squirts some lotion into his hands. He rubs it between his palms and then reaches out. He hesitates and Dean holds his breath before he nudges his arm against Jimmy's open hands. Jimmy's eyes lock on his as his fingers close around Dean's forearm and slick lotion from wrist to elbow. He rubs it in gently and then moves up to Dean's upper arm and repeats the motion.

His hands are smooth and cooler to the touch than Dean's own red-hot skin. Dean's breath shudders out of him when Jimmy gets more lotion on his hands and does the same with the other arm.

"Do you want?" Jimmy asks.

The last half of the question gets lost somewhere in the heavy air of the tent but he holds out the bottle and Dean knows what he meant. Dean glances down at it and then shakes his head.

"It's cool," he says. "You can."

Jimmy pauses. "Okay."

Dean watches Jimmy pour more lotion out of the bottle but closes his eyes when those hands move toward him. The first touch of Jimmy's hands on his shoulders is almost too gentle. Dean tips his head back as Jimmy works the lotion into the skin and then moves down his chest.

Jimmy isn't trying to make this into anything that it isn't, but that doesn't stop Dean's breath from shuddering out when Jimmy's hands move over his chest. He can barely tell if the lotion's even working because he still feels hot all over and his skin's tingling everywhere, not just the places Jimmy's touched. Every sweep of Jimmy's fingers, over his chest and abs, brushing over his sides, lights another fire in its wake.

Dean can't remember anyone ever touching him like this and even if they did, he knows it's never felt this way.

"Here," Jimmy says, nudging at Dean's shoulder. "Turn around."

Dean blinks his eyes open and moves until he's sitting with his back toward Jimmy. This time, Jimmy's touch is bolder. His hands are slick and warm now, his palms pressing in enough to really be felt as he rubs the lotion in. It doesn't just feel like he's trying to soothe Dean. The way he moves his hands over the expanse of Dean's back, across his shoulders, and up the slope of his neck reminds Dean of the backrubs they'd shared as kids. They'd been innocent touches, then; Dean would rub Jimmy's back when the nausea got bad or after a bout of vomiting left him sore and miserable. Eventually Jimmy would offer to return the favor and they'd start exchanging massages and backrubs like tokens of friendship.

The kiss ruined all of that, Dean thinks sadly. Except he can't help but wonder if the kiss just made it suddenly, blindingly obvious what had always been there. Jimmy's touch now is different and the same as it was even two years ago, the last time Dean can remember them sharing something like this. It feels charged and Dean's hypersensitive to everything about Jimmy's touch but he realizes that's not so different either. He'd just gotten so used to excusing it and ignoring it and pretending it was a normal reaction between friends that when Jimmy kissed him like he fucking meant it, Dean was forced to do some reevaluating.

He still isn't sure how things stand but it doesn't seem so important now. They're Dean and Jimmy and even a label like best friends hasn't been enough to explain their relationship. Nothing's ever going to be any kind of normal between them because neither of them will ever be normal anyway. They both grew up different. Together they found a way to make that their own norm.

Dean thinks denying that might be the most futile effort he's ever made.

Jimmy keeps touching him long after the lotions been applied. Dean lets his head fall forward and drifts. The sensations carry him away from all of his usual freak outs and worries about this kind of thing. His whole body buzzes, alert but relaxed, and he feels safe and happy all because of Jimmy.

"Dean?" Jimmy asks.

His voice is soft and a little tentative but Dean's not as worried about what he might say as he probably should be. "Yeah?"

"Your brother," he starts, and then he stops again and rubs a little more firmly at where Dean can feel himself starting to tense up. "Just . . . You don't look after me because you're trying to make up for what happened, do you?"

Dean never really thought it would look like that, but he supposes now that Jimmy knows the truth, it makes sense. And while Dean's first reaction is to tell him no, of course not, he has to stop and think because he's never lied to Jimmy and he's not about to start now.

Losing Sam was the hardest thing Dean ever had to go through. It was worse than when Mom died, worse than Dad leaving him, worse than being alone and practically orphaned. Sam was Dean's responsibility. Protecting him was Dean's _job_ and yeah, he felt a little lost after. Guilty for failing at that job and unsure of what to do with himself. Taking care of Jimmy came naturally after that and maybe what happened with Sam had an effect.

But Jimmy's not a replacement. He's not Dean's attempt to make it better because there is no making it better. In Dean's life, Jimmy is his own, separate entity. He's not family but he's not just a friend. He's nothing like Sam was, nothing like Dad or Missouri or Bobby. He's _Jimmy_ and Dean . . . . Well. That's the most important thing to Dean.

"No," Dean answers honestly.

"So why?"

Dean turns at the question. He and Jimmy are so close their knees bump in the dark and Dean can smell the muskiness of the lotion and the freshness of lake water and Jimmy's unique smell. He hesitates and then reaches out to grip Jimmy's shoulder.

"Because," he says.

But that's not enough and Dean swallows before he relaxes his hold and slides his hand up to cup the curve of Jimmy's neck and shoulder. Jimmy stares at him, his expression oddly unreadable in the shafts of moonlight that cut through the gloom of the tent.

"I take care of the things I care about," Dean finally says. "And I look after what's important to me."

Jimmy's smile is crooked. "Like that car of yours."

Dean squeezes gently. "Hey. She's the love of my life."

"And me?" Jimmy asks, almost but not quite a tease.

Dean shrugs but leans in until their foreheads almost touch, like he's sharing a secret. "Yeah, you're up there."

He can practically feel the air shift with the force of Jimmy's smile and he doesn't care how dumb he looks when he smiles back.  



	8. Act One - Chapter Six

 

When Jimmy walks in on Dean in a rather compromising position, he'd like to be able to say that it wasn't on purpose. But Jimmy's not a liar and while he didn't expect to barge in on _this_ , he knew he was going to be intruding on something the minute he set out from his own house and came to Missouri's.

It had been the plan to march up to Dean's room, burst in, and yell at him until Jimmy started to feel better. Ever since Dean first started to routinely ditch Jimmy at the last minute, effectively standing him up, there's been this build-up of anger and frustration in Jimmy's gut. He's been irritable and punchy, snapping at his parents and his church friends, feeling sullen in class, and moping around at the job he picked up mostly to have something to do since Dean started devoting most of his free time to things like "hitting the gym". Jimmy hates feeling like this; he's usually the calm one between the two but lately it feels like he's channeling Dean's less appealing attributes. He doesn't like it.

So when Dean doesn’t show up for the fourth time in the last two weeks, Jimmy decides that it’s time to just have it out with him. They’ll settle this like they used to when they were little - with a lot of yelling, a few insults (usually from Dean), and then a grudging trip down what Dean always used to call Feelings Lane until someone (Dean) apologizes and someone else (Jimmy) accepts it.

Only the plan gets violently derailed when Jimmy lets himself into Missouri's house, barges into Dean's room, and stops short at the sight of his friend handcuffed on the bed.

Jimmy's eyes dart from Dean's profile down to the strained bend of his arms behind his back. The bands of silver locked around Dean's wrists catch the lamplight and return it in sharp little glints. Jimmy can see where the cuffs cut into Dean's skin with their dull edges, leaving faint marks behind. The position of his arms forces Dean's body into sharp angles; his spine is an almost elegant arch and his chest presses against the thin fabric of his t-shirt, every rhythmic breath visible. Sitting like this, it's suddenly obvious that Dean's put on some muscle while Jimmy wasn't looking. There's barely contained strength visible in every line of his body and Jimmy is only dimly aware of the fact that he's staring.

Dean's head to snaps up and he twists around. The movement jerks Jimmy out of his daze and he looks up, his eyes locking with Dean's. While Jimmy watches, Dean's cheeks suffuse with color and his mouth opens in a shocked expression that might be funny if Jimmy felt at all like laughing in that moment.

Instead a part of Jimmy is unbearably turned on by the sight.

While Dean gapes, Jimmy finally gets the presence of mind to shut the door behind them. It closes with a heavy click of sound that makes Jimmy's pulse jump. They're alone. It's not just an empty house; they're hidden away from everything, gathered up in the seclusion of four walls and a closed door. This bedroom is now their private corner of the world - no one else can get in. No one else can see. Dean doesn't look away in the silence that follows; Jimmy's almost dizzy from staring at him but he can't tear his own eyes away, either. He takes a step closer and then another, stopping just short of the bed. Dean outgrew him over the summer; the difference is only a couple of inches but Jimmy had to adjust to looking up. It feels weird, now, to be gazing _down_ again.

When Jimmy finally finds his voice, the words that come out aren't exactly intelligent. "Um. What . . . ?"

Dean glances away but his eyes find Jimmy's again a moment later and he shrugs like he can't think of an explanation. Jimmy finds that hard to believe; he's seen Dean come up with wild lies that he weaves into plausibility all for the sake of explaining exactly _why_ that jar's broken or that essay wasn't written or he's lingering in the beer aisle. Then again, he never has been one to lie to Jimmy. The thought that Dean might be too embarrassed to tell the truth makes Jimmy's stomach twist itself into knots.

"This weekend's girlfriend?" Jimmy asks.

He's surprised at how acidic the words feel on his tongue. He's never been one to begrudge Dean all of the girls he routinely hooks up with but suddenly the idea of someone else seeing Dean like this, _leaving_ him like this, makes him see a world tinged in green.

Dean blinks and then makes a disgusted face.

"What? No. In Missouri's house? Sick, man."

His voice is a shade deeper than usual and he clears his throat after he speaks, his eyes finally leaving Jimmy's to focus on the bedspread. Jimmy stares down at the top of his head and reaches out before he can even think about it, his fingers resting against the tense muscle of Dean's shoulder. Dean goes still but he doesn't shy away. He doesn't even flinch. It's like he trusts Jimmy not to hurt him or take advantage of him like this. The weight of that trust makes Jimmy's head spin.

"Looks painful," Jimmy says.

He traces his fingers over Dean's shoulder and down his arm to the edge of his sleeve. The heat bleeding off of Dean soaks into Jimmy's fingertips and floods his own body with warmth. He's suddenly afraid if he keeps going, he won't stop. Then some of the tension seeps out of Dean's body at Jimmy's touch and he can't bring himself to take his hand away. He slides his hand down, instead, over Dean's elbow and forearm. Dean lifts his head again as Jimmy fingers the edge of one cuff.

"So, you didn't ditch me for some kinky sex thing," Jimmy says.

Dean's laugh is breathless and he shakes his head. "Not so much, no."

Jimmy hums out a wordless response. He's a little distracted by the heat of the metal and the smooth skin of Dean's wrist. He feels when Dean clenches his hand, the tight press of a tendon against his fingers. When Jimmy shifts his touch, Dean's pulse skitters fast and hard across his fingertips.

"Then why?" Jimmy asks.

Dean blinks at him. "Why what?"

Jimmy takes his hand away and feels some of his earlier anger pushing at the haze of arousal hovering around the forefront of his mind. He straightens up and feels every centimeter of this sudden height advantage.

"Don't," he says.

For a moment Dean's jaw gets that stubborn, I'm-not-talking-and-you-can't-make-me set to it and Jimmy thinks he's going to have to push and pry. That's not a problem for him anymore. Jimmy feels more comfortable getting under Dean's skin these days, making him talk, forcing his way in deeper than Dean's ever willingly let him go. He can't say where the impulse comes from; it's not as if he and Dean haven't always been close. It's definitely not like they haven't always been butting heads. They're just too dissimilar for that to have ever been the case. But it's different now and has been ever since that camping trip this summer. It's like Jimmy knows exactly how much Dean can take, what he'll respond to, and Jimmy gives exactly that.

And then Dean looks at him, really looks. Jimmy can feel himself glaring, knows that he's practically vibrating from how pissed off and turned on he is. It's the latter, though, that's most prevalent here and he can admit that. For all that Jimmy should still be angry, should maybe even be yelling or at least getting in Dean's face about the last few weeks, that doesn't feel important. Jimmy showed up full of indignation and it's there, sure. It simmers just under the surface of everything else and adds to the heat in Jimmy's blood but its sharp intent is blurred over, now. Jimmy knows he's still upset but the whys and the hows of it have retreated and he's left with this tingling all over his skin and a low buzz in his ears.

He _wants_ and he can tell the exact moment Dean sees it.

Dean's breath catches and his eyes grow dark and hot and his expression is suddenly, fiercely hungry. This time when Jimmy reaches out he feels every inch of distance disappear with purpose. He grips Dean's shoulder again, the edge of his thumb brushing against the bare skin of his friend's neck. When Dean's jaw clenches it isn't in frustration but he doesn't realize that Jimmy's already seen whatever he's trying to hold back.

 _What are we doing?_ Jimmy thinks. The question rattles around his mind with a hollow quality to it, like the answer isn't nearly as important as the fact that they're doing anything at all.

There's a small twitch of movement out of the corner of Jimmy's eye and he glances down to see Dean's fingers sliding uselessly against the sheets. That's when he notices the tiny key all but hidden in the folds of the bedclothes. He lets go of Dean to reach down and grab it. The key's practically weightless in Jimmy's palm and cool to the touch. He brings it around and holds it in front of Dean's face.

"Looks like you dropped something," he says.

Dean just stares down at the key and shakes his head. Instead of answering, though, he just shifts and wiggles his fingers again. When Jimmy glances down this time he can see a paperclip held between two of Dean's knuckles. He raises his eyebrows at Dean in question.

"Just watch," Dean says.

Their gazes get all tangled up for a moment and then Jimmy sits down on the edge of the bed, close enough that they're pressed together from shoulder to hip. Dean turns to look at Jimmy head on and the movement brings their faces so close together that their breath mingles in the tight space between.

"What are you doing?"

Jimmy glances down at Dean's mouth and then shrugs. "Watching," he says.

Dean's Adam’s apple bobs when he swallows – the reflex obviously born of nerves but no less distracting for it – but he just shifts until he's leaning forward into Jimmy and tucks his chin against his chest. Jimmy tilts his head to stare down the long line of Dean's back to where his fingers move in clever little twists.

It's mesmerizing to watch as Dean bends the paperclip out of shape and works quickly and carefully to get one end into the lock of the handcuffs. Jimmy can feel Dean's chest expand and contract against his with each breath, knows Dean can feel the same thing. It's a moment before Jimmy realizes Dean's hands are trembling and he wants to reach out and calm him again but he knows that this time Dean's nerves are Jimmy's fault.

Jimmy hesitates for a moment and then rests a hand on Dean's thigh under the guise of holding himself up. He can hear Dean suck in a breath and watches Dean fumble with the paperclip. It falls to the bedspread and Dean curses as he feels around for it. Jimmy just keeps watching, eyes on Dean's hands as he finds it and works it back into the lock. There's some ineffectual wiggling that reminds Jimmy of heist movies, and then one of the cuffs falls open with a clink of metal. Dean lifts his head, brings his arms around to his sides, and catches Jimmy's eye.

"There. Show's over," he says.

But he doesn't push Jimmy away. He never does anymore. He ran after they kissed and kept right on running for months but at some point he just . . . stopped. Jimmy wants to know why. He wants to ask how long he'll be allowed to do this, to climb into Dean's space and stay there. The question always dies on his tongue before he can form it into substantial words. Dean looks at him, sometimes, like he's expecting it and looks relieved when it doesn't come.

This time he just stares. The handcuffs are still attached to him, dangling from one wrist, and Jimmy feels the weight of them when Dean's hand comes up to rest on his waist. They bounce off of his hip and rest against his thigh and it's weird that they're still there but appropriate, too. Jimmy reaches down, brushes his fingers over the back of Dean's hand and then follows the cuff circling his wrist to the length of chain dangling below.

"That's a neat trick," Jimmy says, giving the chain a tug.

Dean's eyes flick down to his mouth. "I've been practicing."

"Think you can do it again?"

Dean huffs out a laugh and shifts on the bed. "You're being a serious distraction here, man," he says.

Jimmy doesn't fall for it. "Can you?" he asks again.

Dean catches his eye and then nods once. He squeezes Jimmy's waist and then scoots away, putting enough space between them for him to be able to turn around. When Dean presents Jimmy with his back and folds his hands together, Jimmy has to clench his fists to keep from touching where he hasn't been allowed, yet. Instead he takes the open cuff and slides it around Dean's wrist. Jimmy clicks it into place, careful not to make it too tight, and then takes the old paperclip from Dean's fingers.

He gets up and walks over to Dean's desk; there's a pile of paperclips along with other odds and ends sitting in the middle. Most of those odds and ends look like they could be used to pick a lock if necessary. The sight of them sparks something in Jimmy, something hidden behind everything else he's letting himself feel right now, and he knows that this isn't just Dean practicing something meant to impress a girl or occupy his time. What that knowledge means, Jimmy isn't sure yet. He'll let himself think about it later.

For now he picks up an old nail clean of rust and turns. Dean's shifted back around and watches him, gives another short nod when Jimmy holds out the item in question. They're both quiet as Jimmy walks back over to the bed and sets the nail on the comforter within reach of Dean's fingers. Dean waits until Jimmy gets settled, sitting across from him this time instead of practically in his lap. It's evident in the shift of Dean's shoulders that he's grasping for the nail but Jimmy doesn't look. Dean's gaze holds his captive. They stare at each other as Dean works to get himself free. This time it only takes a minute and neither of them looks away, even after the handcuffs open and fall to the bed with the soft, high sound of metal on metal.

Jimmy doesn't know how long they stay there, still and silent and staring. The moment isn't broken until Dean's phone rings on his bedside table, loud enough to make them both jump. They look over at it but Dean doesn't make a move to answer it and eventually the ringing stops. When they look at each other again, Jimmy feels strange. He wants to reach out and grab Dean and never let him go but he doesn't do that, of course. Instead he stands up.

"Come on. I'm starving," he says.

Dean's smile is slow and tentative but he doesn't hesitate to roll to his feet. "Ow," he mumbles. "Fucking feet are asleep."

Jimmy rolls his eyes but smiles back and then heads for the door. "Quit whining. And bring your wallet because you're paying."

Dean mutters something behind him but Jimmy doesn't look back. He doesn't have to. He knows that Dean's there and that's all that matters right now.


	9. Act One - Chapter Seven

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the chapter with shades of dub-con. If you're concerned, please skip to "Dean startles and realizes he's been idling at the curb for almost ten minutes . . ."
> 
> Also, explicit sexual content in this chapter and one very NSFW image at the end.

 

Dean can't remember the name of the girl in his lap but he thinks it might be Dani or Desi or something. He doesn't know her all that well; they met at the gym of all places, went on two dates, and now they're in her bedroom with the lights turned low and her parents down the hall. It all feels more skeezy than it used to. A year ago, rounding the bases with a hot girl while she struggled to keep quiet so her family wouldn't hear was one of those sexy adventures he'd made into a weekly pasttime. These days it's not as satisfying. Dean's pretty sure most guys aren't supposed to have sown all their wild oats before graduating high school, but he's beginning to think that's what's happened to him.

It's not even that Dani-or-Desi isn't hot because she is. She's got great boobs. Like, legendary ones. She must work out a lot because her belly's flat and tight and her legs are seriously five days long each. Her perfume's a little thick and cloying and she tastes more like nicotine than girl, but neither of these things are deal breakers. Being turned on isn't really a problem; the way she keeps grinding in his lap is putting a lot of really nice friction on his cock and he's half-hard just from making out. He lets his hands tease under her shirt while she bites and sucks at his neck a little more enthusiastically than Dean's actually into.

"Hey, hey," he says a minute later, urging her back by the hips. "No hickeys, okay?"

She looks down at him for a moment and then mumbles a response and goes right back to his throat. Dean rolls his eyes and thinks that he'll have to wear shirts with collars for the next week just to keep Missouri off his back. Not that it'll work and the way Dani-or-Desi's going to town, the only shirts with collars big enough were probably designed by gay dudes in New York City. He tries to distract her but she's got a single-minded focus and it feels good but in this cursory, almost uncomfortable way. His body's into it because it can't not be but the rest of him isn't and he's really starting to wish he'd bailed on this date.

If he hadn't been feeling so increasingly sexually frustrated lately, he _would_ have. But it's like he's been walking around in this fog of hormones and _need_ for months. He's hooked up with more girls than usual to try and sate it, going so far as to engage in a few repeat performances, but nothing's worked. Not even the kinky college girl from two weeks ago could scratch the itch. Dean's not sure who he has to be fucking to work this out of his system, but he's starting to worry that the answer's right under his nose and he just isn't ready to face it, yet.

When Dani-or-Desi finally pulls away long enough to start tugging at Dean's shirt, he's lost his wood and the last thing he wants in that moment is to get naked. He's never felt like this before and suddenly he understands why sex is such a big deal to girls. Apparently when you're not interested the whole situation gets awkward and miserable really fast. He realizes there's no tactful way to get out of this so he doesn't bother.

"Look, Dani," Dean says.

" _Drea_ ," she shoots back which. Okay, not even really close with that one.

"Drea. I just remembered I have this thing. I should go," he says.

A frown draws her eyebrows together in a tight V and she looks like she wants to start throwing punches.

" _Seriously? Now_?"

"Yeah, um. It's my best friend. I owe him big time for, you know. Stuff. That he does. Anyway, I've been a shitty friend lately and if I forget him again that would make me the worst kind of asshole. I swear I wouldn't do this if it wasn't really important."

Dean tries his most sincere expression even though his legs are practically twitching with the need to run. Drea looks at him for a moment but it seems the best friend angle softened her enough that she isn't about to throw him down and commit kinky sexual acts against his body. Dean realizes even as he thinks it how ridiculous it sounds, but he's honestly a little concerned. If nothing else, even semi-consensual, vanilla sexual acts committed right now would be against his body. Or at least against what Dean wants for his body.

The thought is sobering. What the hell is even holding out for here? _Who_ is he holding out for? Dean doesn't want to think about it but he can't help it. Even when Drea gives a reluctant nod and a lingering kiss goodbye, even after he's rushed out of her house and is speeding toward the Novaks', he can't escape it. He doesn't want to know what or who and he especially doesn't want to know why, but he thinks and thinks and thinks about it right up until Jimmy wanders down the driveway and taps on the passenger side window.

Dean startles and realizes he's been idling at the curb for almost ten minutes chasing his own denial in circles. He looks over to see Jimmy staring in at him with an expression that's confused, exasperated, and fond all at once. Dean makes a face right back and then leans across the seat to pop the lock.

"Is this a surprise date?" Jimmy asks as he slides in. "Because if it is, I should probably shave."

Dean shoves at Jimmy's shoulder and turns down the radio. "Shut up. I'm having a shitty night."

Jimmy eyes him closely. "Everything okay?"

"Fine. Just weird. Hey, you want pizza? I want pizza."

He doesn't wait for Jimmy to answer, just shifts into drive and heads down the street.

"You realize this actually is kidnapping this time," Jimmy says, but he's grinning when Dean glances sideways.

"Whatever. I'm paying so you can shut your cakehole and deal with it."

Jimmy laughs at that and then, because he's an awesome friend, he turns the radio back up instead of asking questions. Dean's glad because he's got enough of those on his own without someone else adding to them. At least with Jimmy near him all of the crap that's been tearing him up since this summer - hell, for a lot longer than that if he's being honest - fades away. Given the fact that Jimmy's the source of most of it, that he's also apparently the cure is ironic. But Dean isn't complaining.

At the end of the day, there's nowhere else he'd rather be than cruising around Lawrence with Jimmy or watching movies with him or sitting around pretending to do homework with him, but even if it didn't make Dean feel so happy and whole to do so, he thinks he'd gravitate toward Jimmy anyway. They're like magnets. It's hard-wired into their DNA that they pull together when they're close and vibrate with the need to be with each other when they're not.

The most popular pizza places in town are sure to be crowded with families and students which is fine by Dean. He and Jimmy discovered this hole-in-the-wall little pizzeria called Antonia's a few years back. Dean still isn't sure how the place hasn't caught on like wildfire but he's glad of it on nights like this, when the last thing he wants is to run into any of his peers or have to share space with a bunch of squealing children. Antonia's is favored mostly by college students and young adult couples. As amazing as the pizza is, Dean's never brought anyone else here and he's pretty sure Jimmy hasn't either. This has always been one of their spots, something they don't share with anyone else.

They're greeted by Antonia herself when they walk in. She's behind the counter taking an order over the phone but covers the mouthpiece long enough to single them out with a gigantic grin.

"Hey, boys," she says. "Seat yourselves and I'll be there in a sec."

Dean and Jimmy share a grin and then stake out a free booth near the back. The place isn't very big - more like a decent-sized café than a restaurant. There are a few booths and tables with chairs, black and white pictures of American heroes and stars on the walls. A lone television set is wedged up in the far corner of the restaurant; Dean’s seen it tuned into everything from Oprah to the World Series depending on the day, quiet background entertainment for the usual lunch crowd or dinner rush.

The place is laid-back tonight, though. There are enough people inside to make it feel cozy and comfortable but not so many that the noise level is grating and the television is completely muted. They slide in across from each other and Dean inhales the smell of homemade marinara and Italian spices. When he looks across the table to see Jimmy doing the same thing, he feels like someone's just rolled a boulder off of him and he can breathe easy for the first time all night.

"I didn't steal you away from anything important, did I?" Dean asks.

"I have a paper due on Monday," Jimmy says.

Dean grins. "Awesome, so that's a no."

Jimmy rolls his eyes. "What about you? I thought you had a date with that girl. Drea?"

It should be embarrassing that Jimmy knows her name after Dean mentioned her _maybe_ once and Dean couldn't remember it while she was trying to suck her initials into his neck. But Jimmy's just a nerd like that. It's one of the many things Dean likes about him.

"Long story," Dean says.

Jimmy looks at him like that's no excuse. It used to be looks like that were just Jimmy's way of being the yin to Dean's yang. He'd give in if Dean really pushed or let something drop if Dean was determined to be close-lipped about it. Nowadays it's like Jimmy's looking right through Dean, finding all of the weak spots in his armor and getting his fingers in there.

Dean's made a big deal about not wanting to talk about things, about not being that kind of guy. He's not, really, but lately Jimmy doesn't take that at face value. He _pushes_ , like he knows when Dean may not want to talk but he should or he needs to. It's freaky but Dean doesn't stop it like he could if he really wanted. Jimmy would never do anything against Dean's will and that's the weirdest part about it; Dean _wants_ for Jimmy to push because it means Dean's worth the effort. He likes it, too, when Jimmy gets inexplicably tough and implacable, so unlike the geeky, awkward dude Dean's known for most of his life.

Dean knows he's going to tell Jimmy all about it, or at least an abridged version, but Antonia interrupts before he can start spinning the tale. They order their usual and Dean manages to stall by shooting the shit until Antonia gets back with their Cokes. After that, Jimmy gives him a pointed look and Dean sighs.

"It was fucking awful," he says. "Just. I wasn't interested and she was and I bailed after thirty minutes."

Jimmy raises his eyebrows and then his eyes slide down to Dean's neck and linger there. It was easy to forget about the marks when was in a rush to get out of Drea's place and he hasn't seen them yet, but Jimmy's gaze makes him feel flushed, sore, and oddly ashamed.

"Looks like you had a lot of fun in thirty minutes," Jimmy says.

His voice is unreadable but there's something in his tone, some steel-edged emotion that might sound like possessiveness if it were anyone else. But Jimmy’s not like that. He's never really understood and Dean likes to tease him for it, but he's also never gotten pissed off about it or anything. There've been a few times since August when he's gotten weird about any mention of a date or a hook-up, but he's never tried to claim Dean in any way.

The sad thing is, Dean isn't sure he could be half as generous if their roles were reversed. He has no idea how Jimmy _feels_ about the two of them or anything, but Dean knows something's up. They don't talk about it, but they keep wading into these moments that are hot and sticky and always leave Dean with something trying to claw its way out of him and just . . . give and take and do whatever's necessary to _have_. And while Dean tries not to think about it and buries himself in work outs and shooting practice and girls to take his mind off of it, it's always still there. Jimmy doesn't date so Dean's never had to be the one on the other end of a phone call listening and encouraging and being a good friend, but he knows that he couldn't do it. Not now.

If he's being honest, there's a part of him that's surprised every time Jimmy manages. Then again, that’s just another one of their key differences.

It's impossible to tell what's going through Jimmy's head when he looks up from the hickeys. There's a weird set to his mouth and his eyes darken as Dean watches. Dean really doesn't want to do this here, have one of their little moments, but he's not entirely sure it's up to him at this point. He's not even sure it's up to Jimmy.

"She attacked me with her mouth," Dean finally says.

That cuts through the tension and makes Jimmy laugh. Dean shakes his head. "I'm serious, Jimmy. She wouldn't stop. It was like having a leech attached to my neck."

Jimmy shakes his head and says, "Well, I'm sorry your date sucked."

Dean looks at him closely, takes in the way Jimmy smiles at him and looks relaxed and happy but still with that dark _something_ lurking behind the spark of humor in his eyes.

"No," Dean says. "You're totally not."

Jimmy cocks his head to the side and then looks down at the table with a small grin. "Maybe not," he admits.

Dean kicks lightly at Jimmy's foot and turns the conversation to more neutral topics. They trade stories about school - senior year being the absolute _worst_ despite also being the easiest - and Jimmy tells Dean about his job at a bookstore. It's still weird when Jimmy mentions work. Dean's had a few odd jobs over the years, mostly mowing lawns and dumb shit like that. For a couple of summers he helped out a local mechanic on Bobby's referral but so far it hasn't been anything too strenuous. So long as he works around the house and keeps his grades up, Missouri's said she's not in any hurry to grow him up. He likes working, though. It makes him feel useful.

Jimmy, on the other hand, has never had a job before. It used to be he couldn't because of his condition and after that his parents just encouraged him to focus on school. Dean didn't even hear about the job until Jimmy'd had it for a couple of weeks, but that's Dean's own fault. He still feels a little sick when he thinks of how much he neglected their friendship for those early autumn months. He's spent every day since that incident with the handcuffs trying to make it up to Jimmy and he has no idea if he's succeeded or not. If it even matters. Jimmy never asked him to make up for the lost time, he just asked that Dean change things. So far, that's been the easy part. The hard part has been explaining exactly why Dean went AWOL and why he's currently filling his time with sports and weight-lifting and running and mysterious trips out to abandoned fields for hours at a time.

The question's come up a few times and Dean's done his best to deflect it. Jimmy's let him but Dean knows it's just a matter of time before he has to tell the truth. He's not even sure why he's so reluctant. He knows Jimmy will understand. Maybe, deep down, Dean almost doesn't want him to.

The pizza is delicious as always and Dean's pretty happy with life when they leave. It's still early but the sun's long set, reluctant to give up its sleepy winter cycle even though it's nearly spring. The air is brisk but it feels nice. A cold front had swept through Kansas last week and Dean's just glad the frigid temperatures have given way to this. Dean can feel Jimmy at his side, warm and solid even though they aren't touching, and he realizes he doesn't want to be home yet.

"You know what I want right now? Pie."

"Is that supposed to be news?" Jimmy asks.

Dean hip-checks him and then glances over. "How important is this paper?"

Jimmy shrugs. "It's only twenty-five percent of the grade, no big deal."

"Just so you know, even if I wasn't already positive you're almost finished with it, I'd drag you with me," Dean says.

"I figured," Jimmy replies with a sideways smile.

It's almost like it used to be between them - the way Dean lets Jimmy pick the music because he's been well-trained, the gentle ribbing at each other, the argument over where they should go for pie and the way Jimmy picks a fight over which flavors are best just because he knows he can. But it's different, too, because Dean's eyes keep catching on the corners of every one of Jimmy's smiles and lingering there. When they sit across from each other to eat their pie, Jimmy watches the slide of the fork out of Dean's mouth and they both flush when he gets caught. When they walk side-by-side, Dean lets their hands bump together and feels a stupid thrill each time. It's nothing and everything like before.

The Novaks are out and the house looks dark and empty from the street by the time they get back.

"There's some church thing going on," Jimmy says when Dean parks, "so I've got the house to myself for a while if you want to hang out."

There's no meaningful look after the offer and Jimmy's voice isn't suggestive in any way, so Dean has no idea why he suddenly feels like the girl he's gone out with has just asked him up to her room to fool around. It's just Jimmy and they do this all the time. They go out, they come home, they watch a movie or shoot the shit, whatever, no big deal. Except this feels like it might be kind of a huge deal.

Then again, when Dean chances a look at Jimmy his friend doesn't seem to be picking up on the same vibes so maybe it's all in Dean's head.

Regardless of whether Dean's actually going crazy right now or not, he knows that there's a big difference between what he should do and what he wants to do. What he should do is bow out, claim he's got something to do with Missouri or just take a raincheck for a night when he hasn't just been jumped by a hot chick he had no interest in. Dean has no idea what'll happen if he stays, he just knows that something will. Either he'll make an idiot of himself or . . . well. Dean isn't sure what "or" might entail. But that's the thing - he really wants to find out.

Since Dean's never been one for thinking things through or saying no to what he wants, he nods and kills the ignition.

"Sure," he says

Jimmy grins and they file out of the car and into the house. It smells sweet inside, like buttercream frosting and cake batter, and Dean takes a deep breath while Jimmy flips on the light in the foyer.

"Please tell me your mom's been baking," Dean says.

He has to fight the urge to follow his nose and Jimmy laughs like he knows exactly what Dean's thinking.

"You just had dessert less than an hour ago," he says.

Jimmy starts up the stairs to the right which leaves Dean no choice but to follow.

"Like that's ever stopped me," Dean shoots back.

They reach the landing and head straight for Jimmy's bedroom, their feet tracing a path that's as ingrained in them as the handful of steps it takes to get from Missouri's front door to Dean's room. Not much has changed in the Novaks' house in general other than the pictures hanging on the walls, but Jimmy's room is different now than it was when he was a teen. The few posters he has up are either of bands - contemporary douchebag types with stupid hair who don't know how to play their instruments - or of famous old people that Jimmy really admires. The bedclothes have gone from being dotted with superheroes to solid black and he painted the walls a soothing blue at some point last year.

He'd invited Dean over to help but that was back when just the thought of being alone in Jimmy's room, paint or no paint, had been too much for Dean to process.

God, sometimes he doesn't get why Jimmy even puts up with him. What does Dean have to offer other than what the school counselor has deemed "attitude problems" and what Missouri's told him are some serious abandonment issues? He gives what he can but he fucks up and every time he does, Jimmy's there to forgive him. Dean doesn't deserve all these second chances and he knows it. Some days he thinks he'd do anything just to feel worthy of them but he never changes. It's not like he's afraid to, or at least that’s what he tells himself; maybe in reality he is.

Even with all the new grown-up touches, this room is as familiar to Dean as his own. He flops onto bed and stares up at the ceiling. Jimmy putters around for a minute. There's a click when he presses play on his boombox and Dean has to grin when the opening strains of a familiar song float through the room. It's the first song on the mix-tape Dean had made for Jimmy's last birthday. It had felt like kind of a gay thing to do at the time, but it makes Dean feel pretty damn awesome to know Jimmy listens to it.

The mattress dips when Jimmy sits down and then falls back until he and Dean are lying shoulder-to-shoulder. Jimmy's ceiling is a broad, boring expanse of nothing but they both stare up at it like it’s a work of art while the music plays. Dean feels hyper-aware of Jimmy in a way he's becoming more and more comfortable with. He's almost overwhelmed by the warm solidity of the body next to his; the smell of Jimmy's soap and deodorant intermingling; the soft, steady gusts of breath that Dean instinctively matches his own to.

He's always felt connected to Jimmy in a way that's defied definition, but this is something deeper. This is every single moment he's supposed to have had with his countless girlfriends, all the things that were missing when they skipped past learning how to be around each other and went straight to the part where they fumbled their way into bed.

Dean shouldn't be thinking about Jimmy in that context but it feels accurate. Fuck that, it feels _right_. There's no arguing it and Dean's spent so long analyzing it, half of the time against his will, that he knows there's just no easy answer. It is what it is. Jimmy and Dean have always just been who they are. That's probably why Jimmy's pretty much the only person in the world Dean's ever been able to spend more than a few hours with at a time and why Jimmy's the only one Dean keeps coming back to time and time again.

"My mom's gone baby crazy again," Jimmy mutters.

The break in silence jars Dean out of his thoughts and he's grateful for it. He hates overthinking things, especially the Jimmy-related ones.

"What?"

"My mom," Jimmy repeats. "There was a baby boom at church and she's obsessed with all the newborns. She's started talking non-stop about grandkids and asking me when I'm going to get serious about dating someone."

Dean wrinkles his nose. "You're still kinda young to be having kids. I mean, I know you religious people are on an accelerated life track or whatever, but still. Pretty sure Jesus wouldn't mind you waiting until after you graduate. Besides, dating's overrated."

There's a pause and Dean can practically feel Jimmy thinking. He isn't sure he likes the way this silence feels - uncomfortable compared to the ease of the quiet moments they've found themselves tucked inside of on and off all night.

Eventually Jimmy says, "I don't know. Maybe she has a point."

Dean turns his head to see Jimmy staring up at the ceiling with laser-like focus. It makes his chest feel tight and a part of him wants to smack Jimmy for being an idiot and even thinking that. And then he realizes that's fucking stupid because isn't he the one always telling Jimmy he needs to go out and get laid? Dean's been pushing Jimmy to date for years. It's not like he has any right to say that Jimmy shouldn't. But he wants to. He really, really wants to.

"You go out with someone because you want to," Dean finally says. "Not because you feel fuckin' obligated."

Jimmy's shrug rucks his shirt up a little and there's a thin sliver of skin visible beneath the hem when Dean glances down. It's not much, not even compared to all the leg and stomach Dean got to see earlier with Drea, but for some reason it's enough to make Dean's mouth water.

"Sometimes I just don't know what I'm waiting for," Jimmy says.

"Bullshit."

Dean's voice is surprisingly strong and Jimmy's gaze snaps to his in surprise. For a second Dean feels trapped, maybe even scared, but he's already opened his stupid mouth, it's not like he can back out now.

"You do know," Dean says.

It's almost funny the way Jimmy just stares at him with all these expressions chasing themselves across his face so fast Dean can't pin one down. Dean stares back - he always stares back - and tries to think of any way to make that sound less incriminating. But fuck it, they _both_ know and what had scared Dean about that a year ago is something he doesn't want to lose now.

"I mean," Dean goes on when Jimmy stays silent, "you could always go out with some church girl because it’s what your mom wants and, like, get married in a year and have five kids and whatever the fuck else. She'd be happy. You'd just be one miserable son of a bitch."

"I could be happy," Jimmy says.

It sounds like he's trying to convince himself. His eyebrows even furrow in concentration like he's testing the words out and forcing them to stick. But they won't. Dean doesn't know if Jimmy's gay or straight because they've never talked about that. It's not Dean's place to guess and he couldn't even if he wanted to. Dean can't even be sure what _he_ is, and he's actually got experience. All he knows is that Jimmy makes him feel all those stupid, girly things that Missouri told him he'd feel when he found the right person. She'd warned him not to be scared of them, told him he'd better not run away or he'd spend his whole life kicking himself for being a coward.

Jimmy may be a dude but he's also Dean's best friend and Dean doesn't want him dating anyone else. He doesn't want Jimmy getting married to some chick from church who probably wears granny panties and cross necklaces and won't put out until marriage. He doesn't even want Jimmy to go out and fuck someone just to get it over with.

Dean props himself up on one elbow and gazes down at Jimmy, both heavy and light with these realizations. "Yeah?" he asks.

Jimmy nods and then says, "No."

His voice is hushed, barely audible above the music still playing in the background. Dean leans in closer, hovers over Jimmy until all he can see are those blue eyes framed by thick, dark lashes.

"Does it make me an asshole if I say I wouldn't want you to be happy?" Dean asks.

"Maybe a little," Jimmy replies.

Dean's eyes dart down to Jimmy's mouth, his lips parted and damp from where he must have slid his tongue across them. Dean wets his own lips.

"Then I’m an asshole," he says, “and I don’t care.”

"Dean," Jimmy says.

There's a question in his voice but it's the light and airy quality of hope that makes Dean's heart pound in his chest. He looks up from Jimmy's mouth and into Jimmy's eyes as he lifts a hand. They've exchanged more and more touches like this, Dean's palm coming up to cup Jimmy's jaw slow and intimate. But none of those were ever meant to lead here. Jimmy was feeling the situation out and Dean was responding but neither of them was pushing farther than it would have been comfortable to go. Dean has no clue if he's about to fuck everything up but he knows he's going somewhere there's no coming back from and he's fine with that. So long as Jimmy's with him, Dean doesn't give a shit where he ends up.

Jimmy's breath hitches as Dean closes the gap between them. Their eyes stay locked the entire time, Dean's descent unhurried and careful. There's enough time for both of them to bolt if they wanted to, but neither does. Jimmy's eyelids slide to half-mast and Dean's follow suit as soon as he feels the first burst of warm, damp air across his lips. He holds himself there and wishes this could be their first kiss. Dean's never been sentimental about first anythings but he wishes suddenly that they hadn't done this that night at a party when Dean was drunk and stoned and Jimmy was following through on a dare. It meant more than that and Dean knew it then. He still knows it. But that was a first kiss like any other for Dean; he can't remember how many girls he's touched for the first time at a school dance or an after party or because of some dumb game.

Jimmy's not like those girls and Dean has to pause because of how fiercely he wants to take it back and do it all _right_ this time.

"What?" Jimmy asks, the question more breath than voice.

"You just . . . you make me so goddamn _stupid_ ," Dean says.

Jimmy's mouth tilts up in a smile that Dean has to go cross-eyed to look at. "I'm pretty sure I can't take all the credit for that," he says.

Dean laughs and a shit-load of tension dissipates right along with it. He slides his hand back into Jimmy's soft, thick hair and rolls his eyes.

"Dick," he says.

Jimmy opens his mouth to say something and they could probably go on like this for a while, trading light insults and witticisms, but Dean refuses to be distracted. He's free of fear and doubt and all of the things that have forced him to keep Jimmy at arm's length for all this time. Dean's finally ready to eliminate the distance between them. He wants it so badly he can feel it in the soles of his feet.

The first touch of their lips is the most careful contact Dean's ever initiated with anyone. It all rushes back at that brush of soft skin against soft skin; Dean's relived their kiss only a handful of times since it happened, purposefully muting the detail so he can pretend each time that the memory has no effect on him. But he remembers this, remembers _more_ than this, and his whole body arches forward to seek what it's been missing since that night.

Dean deepens the kiss - pressing harder and then slicking the tip of his tongue over the swell of Jimmy's lower lip trapped between his own. Jimmy makes this breathless sound that Dean can't even enjoy because a second later the mouth beneath his opens up. Where Jimmy learned to kiss, Dean doesn't know and he kind of hates it. On the other hand, the way Jimmy slides their tongues together and moves his lips over Dean's is a distraction from the random pops of possessiveness in Dean's gut. Jimmy's mouth is hot and wet and tastes sweet like whipped cream and meringue, heady as bread dough and tomato sauce. Dean licks in deep and swallows the sound that rumbles up Jimmy's throat, gives back a groan of his own when he feels Jimmy's hand come up to the small of his back. Jimmy's touch is heavy and warm and urges Dean closer.

Their position is awkward until Dean shifts and slides over until he can straddle Jimmy's hips. Dean's never been the one in somebody's lap before and he breaks the kiss to look down at Jimmy. He means to make sure this is okay, that he's not too heavy or something because Jimmy's still kind of small compared to Dean, his hips slim between Dean's thighs and his waist almost ridiculously small. Instead, Dean gets distracted at the sight of Jimmy laid out beneath him. Jimmy's cheeks are flushed and his lips are wet and red. His pupils are blown so wide there's just an electric ring of blue surrounding them and he looks up at Dean with an expression that's open and raw with need. He's gorgeous and Dean doesn't even feel stupid for thinking it.

"Is this cool?" he finally asks.

"Are you serious?" Jimmy replie s and Dean folds down to press their grins against each other.

It seems impossible that kissing Jimmy could be so much different from kissing anyone else, but Dean's never felt anything like this before. His lips are tingling and his blood's hot in his veins and his heart's threatening to break out of his chest and these aren't just physical responses. Or they are but they're magnified. This is a kiss turned up to eleven, breaking the amps and shattering glass and fogging up windows. Dean feels every swipe of Jimmy's tongue _everywhere_ , like electricity's just zinging around inside with no control and no outlet. He sucks lightly on Jimmy's tongue and Jimmy surges forward in response, his hands coming up to clutch at Dean's hips. The kiss gets hotter, wetter. It's almost sloppy but in the best way, the way that means they can't stop licking at each other and trading soft nips and sucks to Jimmy's bottom lip or Dean's top one.

Dean keeps his hands buried in Jimmy's hair and tugs, grinning when Jimmy just sighs and melts a little. He's always liked finding out what someone else is into in bed. He's never been a selfish lover and he's kind of competitive, too. If at all possible, Dean wants to be the best a person's ever had. It's not different here with Jimmy but all of a sudden it's not just idle curiosity or winner's mentality driving him. It's Jimmy himself. Dean wants to drag every possible sound out of the body beneath him, wants to make Jimmy feel so amazing that he'll always be comparing everyone else to Dean. Not because Dean wants to be the best, but because Dean wants to leave himself marked indelibly on Jimmy somehow.

It would probably freak Jimmy out if he could read Dean's mind right now, but Dean can't even bring himself to give a fuck.

He shifts back on his thighs and breaks the kiss. Jimmy stares up at him, breathless and waiting. Dean pushes his hands under Jimmy's shirt, his palms tingling from contact with hot, smooth skin. Jimmy's eyelids flutter shut and he holds himself so still Dean can practically feel him vibrating with the need to push up and into Dean's hands.

"You ever done this before?" Dean finds himself asking.

"Done what?" Jimmy asks. He sounds fucked out and stupid with it already and Dean really, really wants to earn that voice.

"Made out with someone like this."

Jimmy blinks and then pushes up onto his hands. He sits up and dislodges Dean's touch in the process but it brings their chests almost flush and puts their mouths within kissing distance again. Dean can't complain about that.

"No," Jimmy says. "Just you."

Dean really shouldn't be surprised at this point by how vehement his voice is when he says, "Good."

And then he moves in for another kiss, mapping out the contours of Jimmy's mouth with his tongue and committing them all to memory. Jimmy's kisses gain confidence and after a while he isn't content to let Dean take control. When Dean licks into his mouth, Jimmy sucks on his tongue and then returns the favor. He kisses Dean hard and deep, barely letting up enough for Dean to draw a decent breath. It feels like drowning - Dean's completely dragged under by the way Jimmy's mouth feels and tastes, all of the oxygen burned out of his body by the sheer heat being generated by their bodies. Dean's so focused on the kiss that he doesn't notice Jimmy shifting them until it's too late. The world upends itself for a dizzying moment, long enough for Dean to end up on his back with Jimmy straddling his hips.

"I don't think I taught you that move," Dean says against Jimmy's lips.

"I saw it on TV," Jimmy shoots back.

Dean tips his head back against the mattress to laugh but the sound trails off into sigh when he feels Jimmy's lips against his jaw. They move lower in a slow, soft drag that pops goosebumps all along Dean's arms. Jimmy's mouth is careful but warm and steady and his kisses are open-mouthed and warm. Dean hisses out a breath at a sudden point of pressure on a tender patch of skin. It aches in a way that makes most of Dean's blood rush south and it only gets worse when he opens his eyes. Jimmy's sitting back on Dean's thighs and swipes his thumb over that same spot with a curious expression on his face that melts into one of pure hunger when Dean shivers.

"You look like you were attacked by a vampire," Jimmy says.

The comment is light but the way he presses against what Dean now recognizes as one of the hickeys Drea left, the pressure is purposeful. Dean slides his hands up Jimmy's thighs and cups his friend's hips. Jimmy's lashes flutter when Dean shifts beneath him, but he stays otherwise focused. Dean would like nothing more than to pretend that he wasn't with Drea earlier but he can't, not with the evidence written all over his skin. He feels embarrassed about it and wonders if Jimmy might not be disgusted by it.

It's obvious Jimmy isn't happy with the marks. His lips are curved in a small frown and keeps touching them, finding them with his fingertips and stroking or pressing until the bruises flare with that delicious ache. Dean's hands clench and release around Jimmy's hips and it takes everything in him to stay still and let Jimmy do what he wants. He figures that's only fair, even if a part of Dean wants nothing more than to flip Jimmy back over and turn the tables.

Instead, Dean lets Jimmy touch and makes a soft sound when Jimmy's lips find the biggest of the hickeys. Jimmy slicks his tongue over the spot and then sucks, just lightly at first and then hard enough that Dean can feel blood rushing to the already tender surface.

"Fuck," Dean gasps out.

His hands find their way from Jimmy's hips to his hair and hold on, keeping Jimmy's mouth right where it is. Dean gives him enough room to find another hickey and seal his lips over that one. It's like a literal flare of sensation - bright and sparking against the backs of Dean's eyelids. He tilts his head back further and bares his throat. Jimmy explores at his leisure with drags of teeth and tongue and wet, sucking kisses that make Dean lightheaded.

"I want to do this to you all over," Jimmy says, his voice muffled into the underside of Dean's jaw. "I want to mark you everywhere. Is that weird?"

It should be, Dean thinks. It should be so fucking weird that his best friend is saying filthy shit like that to him in a voice that's full of gravel and lust. It definitely shouldn't make Dean's cock swell and jump in his jeans but it does. Dean wants that and then he wants to return the favor. Jimmy's so fair-skinned Dean thinks he could probably leave gorgeous imprints of his mouth all across the expanse of Jimmy's body with no problem.

He's never wanted to do anything like that before and he sure as hell hasn't ever wanted it done to him.

"Don't fucking care if it is," Dean says.

Jimmy hums his agreement into Dean's skin and God, Dean's torn between his need to take this further and an even stronger impulse to just enjoy this. He settles for finding the hem of Jimmy's shirt and sliding his hands underneath it.

The skin beneath Dean's palms is smooth and a little slick with sweat. Above him, Jimmy drops his head back and makes this sound that's half-whimper and half-sigh. Dean definitely wouldn't mind hearing that again so he lets himself explore. It's weird, feeling the hard planes of another guy's body beneath his fingers instead of soft curves, but it's not the deal-breaker that it would've been for a lot of other dudes who'd spent their whole lives thinking they were straight. In fact, the feel of all that muscle and bone, broad shoulders and a strong waist, it makes Dean itch to see and to taste. He wants to pull Jimmy down on top of him and press closer. He wants to rub against that hard body and share sweat and heat.

Jimmy makes that same sound every time Dean finds a new hot spot - between his ribs, low on his back, just beneath the jut of his hip - and it's still not enough.

It doesn't take much to flip their positions again but this time Dean slots himself between Jimmy's thighs and brings their bodies together until they’re lined up from chest to hip. The hard line of Jimmy's erection digs into Dean's belly through layers of denim and cotton and if ever there was going to be a moment of gay panic, this would be it. Instead, Dean shifts and grinds down. It takes a few rolls of his hips to get the angle right, their cocks lined up so that each shift of their bodies makes a bolt of pure sensation chase its way down Dean's spine and then back up again. Jimmy grips the back of Dean's head and pulls him down into a kiss; their tongues meet before their lips do and then it’s almost violent the way they push and shove and suck their way into each others' mouths. Jimmy tastes more like Dean than anything now and just the thought makes Dean feel like he might come in his jeans like he's still fourteen and brand new to this.

"Dean," Jimmy groans against Dean's mouth. "Please tell me you're not gonna freak out again after this."

"I won't," Dean says.

He gentles their kisses, presses his mouth to Jimmy's soft and intimate to try and seal it, like somehow that'll show how serious he is. It was stupid for him to have freaked out before and he knows it, but he also thinks that if he hadn't done it then he wouldn't be so cool with this now. Dean has absolutely no idea what happens after this but he's not gonna run. He can't. Somehow that feels like the most important realization he's had in a long time but it's hard for him to think of why when Jimmy's thrusting up against him and they're both gasping and grunting and _so fucking close_. Dean's dimly impressed that Jimmy's held out this long all things considered but he doesn't think they can drag this out much longer. Dean doesn't even want to; he's eager to see Jimmy come, to know that Dean will be the first person to have brought him to the edge and pulled him over it.

Dean buries his face in Jimmy's neck and presses sloppy kisses to the skin there while Jimmy clutches at his back and shoves his hips up. They're both almost there. Dean doesn't know how he can tell Jimmy's close but it won't be long, just a few more grinding thrusts. It takes an insane amount of effort for Dean to pull back and shove up onto his elbows so he'll be able to look down at Jimmy and see when it happens. Jimmy's eyes snap open and lock onto Dean's. It's like they get suspended in the moment, stretched tight and thin and ready to snap. One more breath, one more heartbeat, one more shift of their bodies, and that's all it'll take.

The unmistakable sound of keys in the front door shatters the moment completely and Dean and Jimmy roll away from each other so quickly that Dean takes an elbow to the chin and kicks Jimmy in the kidneys.

" _Shit_ ," Dean hisses.

He's so hard it hurts and the ache is only more pronounced now that he knows he's not going to be getting off anytime soon. The ebb of an impending orgasm is almost painful and he has to close his eyes and concentrate on breathing just to be able to get his brain working again. He becomes aware of the music still coming through Jimmy's speakers and the sounds of the Novaks puttering around downstairs and the shallow, ragged quality of Jimmy's breathing. Attempting to concentrate on any one thing to try doesn't work and sheer force of will isn't enough to wilt his erection. Dean rubs a hand over his face and then forces his eyes open and looks to the other side of the bed.

On the one hand, Jimmy looks miserable and embarrassed and keeps darting glances at the door like it'll burst open at any second. On the other hand, his hair sticks up in wild little tufts and he's flushed and his lips are red and a little puffy and his clothes are wrinkled and jerked all out of place. He's the hottest thing Dean has ever seen which doesn't really help the situation much.

Jimmy looks up and stares at Dean for a moment. His lips twitch and Dean snorts and then they're both laughing so hard they have to curl into each other to muffle the sound in each others' shoulders. They're still snickering and chuckling and setting each other off again when there's a soft knock on the door. They pry themselves apart. Dean flops onto the beanbag chair near the foot of the bed and Jimmy gets up to turn down the music.

"Jimmy? Is that Dean in there with you?" Mrs. Novak asks.

"Yeah, Mom," Jimmy answers.

The door cracks open and she peers in at them with a small smile.

"We're about to head to bed so just keep it down, okay? Are you staying over tonight, Dean?"

Dean shrugs and tries to keep from blushing. He doesn't want to look over at Jimmy because either he'll start laughing or Mrs. Novak will see all over his face how much he wants to have a very grown-up sleepover with her son.

"I wasn't planning on it," he says truthfully.

"Well, you're more than welcome to." She looks over at Jimmy and adds, "We'll see you in the morning. Good night, boys."

Jimmy and Dean say good night in unison and watch closely as she closes the door behind her. It gets quiet again, a silence filled with more awkwardness than any of the ones before. It isn't bad, though. It just reminds Dean of the first time he asked a girl out, how he'd been kind of nervous about it but excited, too. Hopeful and ready for something awesome to happen. Jimmy wavers between the floor and the bed for a moment and Dean reaches out to grip his wrist and tug him down onto the beanbag chair. It's barely big enough for both of them, but they obviously aren't going to complain about the tight fit.

Jimmy's snug against Dean's side and when his head falls onto Dean's shoulder it doesn't feel annoying and clingy the way it is when some girls do it. It's just _good_. Dean reaches up to thread his fingers through Jimmy's hair and when Jimmy turns his head, his nose bumps against Dean's jaw. Dean smiles to himself and leans down to press their lips together. It's a gentle kiss that's all sweetness and none of the heat from earlier. Dean likes it just as much as any of the other kisses they've shared, though, and he does it again. And again. And Jimmy does it to him once, twice, three times. They trade those soft, close-mouthed kisses back and forth until long after the tape's cut out and the house has fallen completely silent again.

Eventually they pull apart and watch each other closely.

"I should go," Dean says.

Jimmy looks hurt for a split second. He masks the expression quickly but Dean sees it and shakes his head in response.

"I'm not running," he says. "I promise. I just . . . I don't want to fuck this up. Whatever this is, I want to do it right."

"You're a dork," Jimmy says.

Dean figures he wouldn't be grinning half that wide if he didn't really like it, though.

"Hey, stop stealing my lines," Dean says.

They peel themselves apart and get to their feet. Jimmy walks Dean all the way out to his car. They keep their distance once they're outside Jimmy's bedroom and especially when they step out into the open. It's so late it's almost early and nobody in their right mind is awake and staring out of their window right now, but they aren't stupid. Dean kind of wishes they could be. He wouldn't mind pinning Jimmy to the side of the car and giving him one last kiss goodnight. Instead they let their hands brush as Dean circles around to the driver's seat. He waves goodbye to Jimmy and waits until his friend makes it back inside before he starts the car and drives off.

The roads are empty and the rumble of the Impala and the memories of the night keep Dean company all the way home.

The desperation doesn't come as a surprise. Dean's felt it building inside of him like a prairie storm for days. He and Jimmy have only seen each other a handful of times since that night in his bedroom and the distance has been driving Dean crazy. He's not used to this whole . . . taking his time and going slow thing. So it stands to reason that the next time he and Jimmy can get each other alone they come together in a head-on collision of hands and mouths and panted breaths.

There's nothing shy or hesitant about the way Jimmy kisses him. He licks deep into Dean's mouth and nips at Dean's bottom lip and suddenly all those dumb sex metaphors about being eaten alive make a whole lot more sense. Dean should probably feel awkward about just letting Jimmy take control, right? He thinks behavior like this probably makes him the chick in the relationship and then there's the question of whether or not they even have a relationship. Dean doesn't think so; he thinks that this is too complicated for labels and, honestly, that's not even his main concern right now. Mostly he's full absorbed in the way Jimmy's hands tease under the hem of his shirt and brush over the bare skin of his stomach.

"Jimmy," Dean gasps out.

Jimmy doesn't reply except to kiss Dean again, so hard and deep that Dean feels it down to the soles of his feet. He hauls Jimmy close with an arm around his back and threads the fingers of his free hand through Jimmy's hair. One of Jimmy's thighs rides up between Dean's and the friction's enough to send Dean from half-hard to aching in seconds. The fall into a clumsy, grinding rhythm. Jimmy's cock is hard against Dean's hip and they strain against each other, pressing and rolling their hips together until Dean's reduced to cursing and Jimmy's voice is cracked and low.

It's embarrassing that Dean's hands shake when he reaches down between them for the button of Jimmy's jeans, like he's some kind of virgin or something. A part of him recognizes that, technically, he kind of is. Sex with girls is nothing like this, obviously, and Dean hasn't spent enough time thinking about gay sex to be completely sure he won't freak out at the sight of his first naked dick. He wants it, though. He wants whatever Jimmy's got on offer and he's full prepared to dive in feet first, nerves or not. But apparently Jimmy has something else in mind.

"Wait," he says.

Jimmy stops Dean with gentle fingers against his wrists before folding their hands together. Dean raises his eyebrows and Jimmy just grins and moves Dean's arms to his sides.

"Stay," he says.

And then he drops to his knees and Dean's brain promptly starts functioning. This isn't what Dean had expected. He's thought about it a few times (or more than a few but it's not like he's counting), but this is still Jimmy. Dean has no idea how his friend feels about the whole church thing these days considering he's breaking their cardinal No Homo rule, but either way Jimmy's still a virgin. Virgins don't usually do this, at least not in Dean's limited experience with them. Most girls don't even like it no matter how many times they've had sex. Dean had thought that after a while he might be able to convince Jimmy to try it out but he's sort of been wondering if he'd have to go first and hope Jimmy would be nice enough to reciprocate - a terrifying thought that's proven no less appealing for its scare-factor. Instead, Jimmy's taking the lead on this and Dean can do nothing but stare down the length of his own body as Jimmy rucks up his t-shirt and mouths at the jut of Dean's hipbones.

Jimmy takes his time exploring Dean's abs with his tongue and by the time he starts to fumble with buttons and flies, Dean's so hard it hurts. He reaches down to help Jimmy out. Jimmy rocks back on his heels a little and smiles up at Dean, the expression full of promise and heat and somehow sweetly grateful at the same time. Dean grins back and reaches down to brush his thumb over the corner of Jimmy's mouth. It shouldn't shock Dean's system when Jimmy slides his lips over the tip of Dean's finger, but it does. He's just . . . not used to seeing Jimmy like this, hotter than fucking porn and staring at Dean with eyes so blue they're practically electric.

Jimmy takes over as soon as Dean gets his jeans and boxers shoved down to his thighs. The first touch of Jimmy's fingers to the head of Dean's cock are almost a tease - the pressure is light like a whisper and slow as honey - but Dean gets the feeling it's exploratory. This is something neither of them have ever done; Jimmy's never seen another person naked, period, and Dean's never been with a guy. Suddenly those nerves come crashing back and while they do nothing to wilt Dean's erection (thank God), they make this moment feel heavy and significant. Jimmy wraps a hand around the base of Dean's cock and meets his eyes before closing the distance and licking lightly over the head. Dean refuses to let his head fall back or to squeeze his eyes shut because there's no way he's going to miss a single second of this but fuck if it doesn’t take Herculean effort to keep his neck upright.

The lips wrapped around him are soft and red and Jimmy's lashes are dark against his flushed cheekbones but it's the feel of him - hot and wet - that has Dean garbling out incoherent sounds. Jimmy's so careful, almost too much, as he slides his lips down and sucks his way back up. There's no rhythm to it, no finesse, and it's sloppy and slow and wonderful. It's even more fantastic when Dean thinks that he gets to be Jimmy's first. No one's ever been inside Jimmy like this. No one's ever seen him on his knees or felt his touch. It's beyond intimate and it pushes Dean closer to the edge faster than he really wants to get there.

"I'm close," Dean warns, one hand coming up to pet at Jimmy's hair.

He's embarrassed because it's probably been less than five minutes and he's never had a problem with stamina before, he doesn't get why it's such a fucking issue now. But Jimmy just hums and takes Dean in deeper, sucks harder and faster and Dean's _there_ , almost, he just needs a nudge, a tiny shove. He blinks his eyes open and catches Jimmy staring up at him and that's it, that's the thing. Jimmy's eyes are heavy-lidded and as hot as his mouth is and it's enough to send Dean catapulting head over feet into orgasm. It hits low in an explosion of sensation and Dean cries out while Jimmy swallows him down like a pro.

Jimmy lets Dean's cock slip from his mouth. When Dean looks down at him again, the corner of Jimmy's mouth is smeared slick with white and Dean feels the strange urge to pull him up and lick him clean. He reaches down, slides a hand through Jimmy's hair and watches as Jimmy tilts into the touch with closed eyes. Dean feels this swell of affection in his chest that's so strong it threatens to overwhelm him.

Something important sits on the tip of Dean's tongue, propelled there by the sheer force of his fondness of Jimmy, but he can't say it. His mouth is too dry and he's too scared and Jimmy just kneels there, oblivious and so fucking beautiful. Dean starts to fold to his knees. Jimmy blinks his eyes open and Dean drowns in them just like he always does. The difference is that nowadays he doesn't mind. He opens his mouth to try and speak again but a loud buzz interrupts. Dean frowns and looks around but the noise only gets louder and louder and -

\- Dean wakes up.

His alarm clock wails on the bedside table and Missouri'll come pounding on his door any second if he doesn't get the damn thing to shut up. Dean gladly reaches out to smack it quiet and then rolls over in his bed to stare up at his ceiling. His boxers are sticky and uncomfortable and his heart's still pounding in his chest. Dean can't remember all the details of the dream but there's enough swimming around in his brain to make him want to bury his face in his pillow and curse a fucking blue streak. Instead he closes his eyes and wonders why he feels like he's missing something.

No matter how much he tries to pinpoint what it is that feels vital and absent, it doesn't work. Eventually he gives up and thinks, again, about the more memorable aspects of the dream. His cock twitches in interest and Dean rolls his eyes at himself. He just had a wet dream for the first time in months, all over his best friend, and he's _still_ turned on. Perfect. Today's going to be awesome.

But when Dean slides out of bed and heads for the shower, he can't help smiling anyway. It was a really, really good dream.  



	10. Act One - Chapter Eight

 

It's late when Jimmy finally gets home. He'd worked a double shift followed by tagging along with his parents to some prayer meeting that they guilted him into. He'd bowed out of getting a late dinner with them and a few other members of the congregation; the last thing he wants these days is to spend more time than necessary with people he has nothing in common with.

Not that Jimmy's had a crisis of faith or anything. For as long as he can remember he's had this . . . _knowledge_ of God's existence that transcends simple faith and belief and nothing's been able to challenge it. Dean's tried once or twice, not in an attempt to be rude but because he just doesn't get it.

Honestly, Jimmy doesn't either. He could use a dozen different metaphors to try and describe it and none of them would come close. Even his peers at church don't see it the same way Jimmy does. They pretend to; the few times Jimmy's opened up in youth group meetings or after church services about how he just knows that God is out there and alive, they nod and start going on about how He supposedly helped them with this test or kept them off the road when that accident happened. They're so self-centered about it and their faith hinges on works and evidence. Jimmy thinks that even without the miracle that saved his life, his faith couldn't be shaken.

Sometimes Jimmy wants to tell Dean that it's not so different from how he feels about his own father, but those are two things they only talk about when Dean allows them to and never extensively.

Dean had asked a few nights ago during one of their late-night phone calls how Jimmy felt about "the whole wanting to bone dudes thing". The truth is, Jimmy feels fine about it. He knows what his parents think and he knows how his pastor feels about it. He's been in meetings where other young adults have quoted scripture after scripture about it being an abomination. Jimmy's not naive or in denial.

"I'm pretty sure I'm right about this," Jimmy had answered. "They get a lot wrong, you know? A lot of people just . . . don't get it."

Dean had laughed, the sound soft and a little sleepy. "How do you even know? You and God meet over beers to discuss this shit every other Friday or something?"

"Mondays, actually," Jimmy had replied. "He hates them as much as we do. Beer helps."

Jimmy really has no idea how he knows these things, but if someone asked him to lay down his life for them, he would. The only other thing in his life that he feels that strongly about is Dean.

Dean . . . who Jimmy hasn't really seen in weeks. They've found a few spare minutes to hang out, but it’s usually been when Missouri's home or the Novaks are around. When they manage to meet up outside of either of their houses, it's for a movie or midnight trips to greasy diners or something, places where it's not like they can _do_ anything. Sometimes Jimmy's not sure Dean even wants to.

True to his word, Dean hasn't run off. He calls almost every night, but the conversations either start off awkward or end up there eventually. Neither of them even know what they're doing. This isn't dating, Jimmy's pretty sure. Dating is more formal, isn't it? But at the very least there's, something kind of formal about it. It may not be a relationship but it's that first step there, and neither he nor Dean have indicated that's where they're headed. Every time they've hung out has been pretty much like any other outing between them and they haven't so much as kissed again yet. There've been near-misses, moments when Dean leans in or Jimmy inches closer, but something always interrupts.

Still, the kissing is one thing and Dean hasn't even pushed for that. Jimmy knows this is a big deal for Dean; he hasn't had as long to accept his feelings for Jimmy. In almost all the time Dean's been hooking up with girls or pushing Jimmy away, Jimmy's known that he likes guys – but more specifically, he likes Dean. That hasn't changed since Jimmy first had the realization and he doesn't see it changing any time soon. Dean hasn't said that he's uncomfortable with it and he hasn't freaked out, but Jimmy just always thought things would be different. He imagined that if Dean ever returned his feelings, there would be a lot more time spent together. Jimmy'd be lying if he said he didn't expect most of that time to be spent in someone's bed.

Yeah, he grew up in church and still considers himself a Christian in the ways that count, but Jimmy's still only human and he's pretty sure that a few make out sessions and mutual orgasms aren't going to send him to hell. He knows Dean doesn't have those reservations, so Jimmy just wants to know if it's ever going to happen or if they're both deluding themselves into thinking this will work out.

Jimmy trudges up to his bedroom and collapses onto his bed after kicking off his shoes. Tomorrow's Sunday and even though his trips to church have been increasingly sporadic, his parents have been laying the guilt on thick so he should probably go to get them off his back. The thought alone is enough to exhaust him and he buries his face in his pillow with a grimace. As tired as he is, he has trouble falling asleep and he's still half-awake when his phone rings.

There are only a handful of people it could be but instinct tells Jimmy it'll be Dean. His hand fumbles along the bedside table for the phone and he answers with a sleepy sound into the receiver. A familiar chuckle answers him on the other end.

"In bed already? You're worse than Missouri," Dean says.

"I'm tired," Jimmy says.

"You're _lame_. It's not even midnight yet."

" _You're_ lame," Jimmy shoots back.

Dean just laughs. "Fine, whatever. I'll make this short."

Jimmy wants to tell him it's fine but the sound of Dean's voice has chased off that last thread of restlessness and all he can manage is another noise of agreement.

"I want to take you somewhere tomorrow," Dean says. "Early. If you want, I mean. I know you've got church so-"

"I'm in," Jimmy cuts in. He doesn't even have to think about it. "I can skip it."

There's a pause on the other end and then Dean says, "Awesome. Right so dress comfortably, I guess. And I'll pick you up."

"Sounds good," Jimmy says.

"Yeah. Night, Jimmy," Dean says.

His voice drops a little, sounds soft and intimate and Jimmy smiles as he says good night back. They hang up and Jimmy nestles into his pillow again. On the one hand he knows his parents probably won't be too excited about this change in plans. On the other hand, he can't find it in himself to care and he falls asleep with a smile on his face.

 

Dean's tight-lipped about where they're going. He babbles about everything but their destination - friendly boxing matches, horrible exams, how much he wishes he could just be done with high school already, how lucky Jimmy is to be in college. He does it all with his characteristic sense of humor but Jimmy can detect a thread of nervousness hovering just inside the conversation. It makes Jimmy's own palms sweat in sympathy; he has no idea what to expect but he's not sure he's ever seen Dean quite like this. Wherever they're going, if it's enough to make Dean nervous then that's enough to make Jimmy's own body tight with nerves, too.

The drive is long and winding and takes them off of any main roads and into an endless stretch of abandoned fields that are far removed from prying eyes.

"I'm almost positive you didn't bring me out here to kill me and bury the body," Jimmy says when they park on the far side of a thick copse of trees. "But not entirely."

Dean laughs. "Dude, if I killed you I'd _burn_ the body. That's Hunting 101."

Jimmy nods and pulls out an imaginary pad and pen. "Burn dead bodies. Got it."

Dean reaches out to ruffle his hair and Jimmy makes a show of shying away from the touch even though he wants to melt into it. "Nerd," Dean says.

There's not enough room in the front seat for Jimmy to be able to move very far and Dean's hand lingers in his hair for a moment, his fingers trailing down to brush over the curve of Jimmy's ear. The touch elicits a shudder and Jimmy fights the urge to sway closer, tells himself it's Dean's move to make. Dean sucks his bottom lip into his mouth and then tugs on Jimmy's earlobe with a smile.

"Come on. We're wasting daylight."

Jimmy wants to tell him it's not even noon yet, but Dean's out of the car before he can. It doesn't _feel_ like Dean's running from him, but Jimmy can't help but think that the guy he knows would never waste this kind of time alone doing anything but getting physical if it was what he wanted. Jimmy sighs and lets his head fall back against the seat with a thump before opening the door and climbing out. Dean's around the back of the Impala with the trunk open, and when Jimmy wanders back he sees the bottom propped up to reveal that secret weapons' hatch.

"We're not killing and burning some _other_ body, right?" Jimmy asks.

Dean glances over his shoulder and grins, but Jimmy can tell that nervousness is back. "What is _with_ you and the dead bodies?" Dean asks.

Jimmy shrugs and then raises his eyebrows when Dean tosses two handguns and a box of ammo into a duffle bag. He hands the duffle to Jimmy and gets the trunk closed up.

"I'm teaching you how to shoot one of those," Dean says. "And not with live targets so stop looking at me like that."

"Like what?" Jimmy asks. "I'm not looking at you like anything."

"Uh-huh," Dean says. His lips quirk up in a softer smile than the grin he'd been wearing a moment before and he reaches out to tug on the front of Jimmy's jacket. "Let's go."

The lesson lasts most of the day. The sun burns off the last of the morning dew while Dean covers the basics of assembling and loading a gun and teaches Jimmy how to hold it. His heart pounds in his chest when Dean adjusts his grip, half from Dean's proximity and half from the weight and power of the weapon in his hands. The temperature climbs with the laziness of early spring and by the time Jimmy's ready to shoot, it's warm enough that he and Dean can strip down to their t-shirts. They leave their jackets in a pile near the duffle for the actual shooting part of the lesson. The first time Jimmy fires the gun he can feel the kick of it vibrate through every single bone in his body.

"Whoa," he breathes, looking down at the gun in his hands.

"I know," Dean says from over his shoulder. "Now do it again."

Jimmy pulls his arms up and takes in a deep breath, exhales halfway like Dean taught him, and squeezes the trigger. The kick is just as strong as it was the first time but Jimmy recovers quickly, takes aim, and fires again on Dean's command. He reloads after he empties the clip, careful to remember how Dean showed him to do it earlier, and gets right back to it.

By the time the sun's starting to sink again, Jimmy's comfortable with the gun. He may not be a great shot or anything, but Dean seems pretty proud of him when he says they can start to pack it up.

"You did good," he says, taking the gun from Jimmy.

Jimmy chews on his bottom lip and watches Dean put everything away.

"Hey," Jimmy says after a moment.

Dean looks up from where he's kneeling by the duffle bag and raises his eyebrows. Jimmy pauses and tries to figure out how to frame the question. Eventually he gives up and just blurts it out in one word.

"Why?"

For a moment Dean's expression shutters completely, his eyes getting that guarded, hunted look that Jimmy hates being so familiar with. And then he glances down and everything about him softens with something Jimmy can't quite name.

"I just thought you should know how," Dean says.

"Dean."

Jimmy knows what Dean's not saying. He's known for a while and he's been content to wait for Dean to just _tell_ him what this is all about but so far Dean's stayed silent and Jimmy's tired of being patient. Dean refuses to look up and Jimmy sighs.

"Come on," he says. "Just tell me."

There's a beat, a moment so quiet the only thing Jimmy can hear is the gentle wind rustling its way between them. And then Dean shakes his head and lifts his eyes to Jimmy's.

"I just want you to know how to do this. Just in case."

 _Just in case what?_ Jimmy wants to ask, but he already knows the answer to that question. Besides, Dean's up on his feet and walking toward the Impala before Jimmy can decide whether he wants to ask anyway or just leave it be. That effectively decides it for him and Jimmy stomps after Dean, feeling irritated and petulant all at once.

He slides into the passenger seat while Dean's still putting things away in the trunk and barely resists the urge to slam the door. As frustrated as he is, Jimmy would never take it out on the Impala. She's innocent in all this and anyway, Dean might actually punch him in the mouth if he did that. So Jimmy just stews in the front seat, getting angrier and angrier over the fact that of all the people in the _world_ he could have fallen for, it had to be Dean Winchester. Nothing about this is easy and Jimmy has the sinking feeling that it's always going to be that way, which would be fine if it seemed like Dean were on anything even remotely resembling the same page.

Dean gets in but he doesn't start the car. "What?"

"Nothing," Jimmy says.

Dean's sigh is explosive. "Don't fucking start, man. Seriously, just tell me what your problem is."

"Right now? _You_ are," Jimmy says.

The reply is mumbled but Jimmy can still hear it just fine. "You're being such a fucking girl right now."

That's pretty typical Dean, all things considered. Jimmy's always been exasperated by Dean's tendency to downplay anything remotely resembling an emotional interaction with some comment about how "girly" it is, but right now it pisses him off.

"Why do you always do that?" Jimmy asks. "You sound like an asshole, you know. Every time."

"That's better than sounding like a whiny, prissy bitch," Dean shoots back.

Jimmy sucks in a breath and feels the sudden, potent urge to punch Dean in the face. "You're a liar. That's your problem. You're never honest about anything-"

" _Bullshit_. When have I ever lied to you, huh?"

"Then tell me what this is. Tell me why you really brought me here. Tell me what's going on between us. Tell me _something_ , I don't care, just as long as it's the truth."

"I needed to know you could defend yourself, okay?" Dean's voice is practically a shout and his hands clench into fists against his thighs as Jimmy watches. "In case anything happens to me. I need you to be okay if I'm not here."

"If," Jimmy repeats.

Dean turns his head toward him and his face twists up in an expression that borders on anguished. "Don't, Jimmy," he says. "Don't ask me right now, okay?"

Jimmy chews on the inside of his cheek to keep the question at bay, more because Dean actually asked than any desire to hold back. The grateful look on Dean's face is enough to relax the knot of tension in Jimmy's belly somewhat, but there's still one more gigantic elephant in the front seat with them.

"What about the other thing?" Jimmy asks.

"What other thing?"

Dean actually looks confused for a moment. And then his eyes clear with understanding and his shoulders tighten up. Jimmy feels, in that moment, like everything stops. All he has to do is wait for Dean to say that there is no "us" to speak of between them, that he's tried but it doesn't work or that he's not willing to _keep_ trying because it’s clearly not going to work or something like that. Jimmy's lain awake at night wondering if maybe he's pushed this. Dean's always been willing to do anything for him - what if the kisses and the touching are just more sacrifices he's forced himself to make? Jimmy thinks that's exactly what Dean's going to tell him so it comes as a shock when Dean leans into his space and presses his lips to Jimmy's ear.

"You mean _this_ thing?" he asks.

His voice is suddenly low and hot, smooth where it had been nearly jagged before, and the sound of it makes Jimmy's heartrate spike. That's nothing compared to the feel of Dean's teeth closing over his earlobe or of the hot, damp kiss pressed to the skin just beneath it.

"Yeah," Jimmy says, turning his head to meet Dean's gaze.

Dean stares at him and then lifts a hand and buries his fingers in Jimmy's hair. "It kinda freaks me out." It's said with such fondness and honesty that Jimmy can't help but laugh.

"But you're not running," he says and Dean smiles back.

"I told you I wouldn't."

Jimmy knows he should probably let Dean take the lead on this, just like he's been doing so far, but sitting around waiting gets really old really fast. If Dean's as freaked out as he says, maybe Jimmy needs to do something about it. At least that's what he tells himself when he twists at the waist and presses their mouths together.

The kiss is practically chaste at first; Jimmy catches Dean's bottom lip between his own but there's no tongue, just the gentle rasp of skin against skin. And then Dean makes a sound, something deep and guttural, and licks into Jimmy's mouth. Jimmy gasps in response and kisses back, sucking Dean's tongue into his mouth and curling a hand around the back of Dean's neck. They kiss like they're starving for it and while Jimmy knows he practically is, it's a relief that Dean's responding with equal enthusiasm.

Dean tastes sticky sweet like the soda they had with the lunch Missouri had packed for them and Jimmy thinks he could spend all day just licking the taste out of Dean's mouth. That's not part of Dean's plan, apparently. He only lets Jimmy control the kiss for a few moments at a time before he nips at Jimmy's bottom lip or shoves their tongues together like he's got a point to prove. Jimmy doesn't give up ground easily but it's playful, the way they keep trading the upper hand. When Jimmy breaks the kiss and presses his lips to the underside of Dean's jaw and then to the long, smooth column of his neck, Dean's hands tighten in his hair. The way his scalp prickles is enough to make him groan into Dean's skin and Dean tugs again.

"You like that?" Dean asks, as if the way Jimmy pushes up into his hand isn't indication enough.

"Apparently," he says and Dean huffs out a breathless laugh.

"Good to know."

Jimmy hums in agreement and decides to do a little exploring of his own. If he remembers correctly, he's pretty sure Dean's neck is sensitive. Sure enough, just the lightest graze of teeth over his pulse point has Dean arching forward with a small, thin sound. Jimmy catalogs that response and then parts his lips and sucks Dean's skin between his teeth. That'll probably leave a mark, which is exactly what Jimmy wants. He doesn't even think twice about who might see, who might look and _know_ , because all he wants is for Dean to have some physical reminder of him later. Dean pulls hard at Jimmy's hair but keeps him close, tipping his chin back to bare his throat.

Even through the fog of arousal and need currently clouding out most of Jimmy's thoughts, he can't help but be amazed that Dean's letting him do this, letting himself be _seen_ like this. Logically Jimmy knows he’s not blazing new trails, here. Others have been with Dean, have heard his breath pull short and fast, have seen his skin flush with want. But they’re not here and this moment belongs to Jimmy. He feels a flash of heat when he thinks that now he’ll have the chance to burn away any trace of someone else's touch with his own mouth and hands and body.

Jimmy tugs at the collar of Dean's shirt to get his mouth on the hard line of his clavicle, nips and sucks, leaves another mark there where no one can see unless Dean lets them.

"Shit, Jimmy," Dean breathes out.

He pulls Jimmy back up to him and slams their mouths together in a kiss that's hard and deep and a little sloppy. Jimmy makes a muffled sound when he feels Dean's hand push up the hem of his t-shirt to touch the bare skin of his stomach. Dean's fingers are rough with calluses and a little clumsy as they slide up over Jimmy's chest and back down to the barely-there curve of his hip. Jimmy can't imagine how much different he must feel compared to a girl and he goes still, worried that it might turn Dean off. But Dean just presses hot, desperate kisses to Jimmy's jaw and neck and lights Jimmy on fire from sternum to bellybutton with a rough sweep of his palm.

Jimmy wants more. He's been wanting, feels like he's spent half of his life just waiting for this. His entire body is one tingling, raw nerve-ending and every brush of Dean's mouth or his fingers makes Jimmy feel like he's just been zapped by lightning.

"Here," Dean says into the crook of Jimmy's neck. "Like this."

It takes Jimmy a second to realize that Dean's tugging at the hem of his shirt, trying to get it off. Jimmy leans back and lifts his arms over his head. The world goes dark for a moment when the shirt gets caught around Jimmy's upper arms but then Dean's slipping it the rest of the way off and tossing it in the direction of the backseat. Jimmy starts to lean back in but Dean's look makes him pause. His eyes are practically molten, even in the dying light of evening, and take Jimmy in with one slow, long, languid look. Jimmy can feel his cheeks heat up with a blush and he kind of wants to hide. It's not like Dean hasn't seen him shirtless before, obviously, but he's never just _stared_ like this. No one has. Jimmy feels pretty scrawny and pale and unattractive compared to Dean, not to mention every second Dean looks is another second that could bring them closer to him having a gay freak-out.

Only Dean doesn't freak out. His tongue slides over his lips in a nervous gesture that Jimmy echos but he doesn't back off or tell Jimmy to put his shirt back on. Instead he lifts his hands and presses his palms to Jimmy's chest with splayed fingers. The touch burns in the best way and Jimmy swallows hard, doing his best to stay still.

"This is so weird," he says.

"I can put my shirt back on," Jimmy suggests.

Dean glances up at him through his eyelashes. "I'm good. But thanks."

Jimmy can't think of anything to say to that and he's pretty sure Dean isn't looking for an answer so he just glances down. Dean's hands look even more broad and tan than usual against Jimmy's pale skin and the sight makes his mouth go dry. As he watches, Dean shifts one hand and flicks curiously at Jimmy's nipple. Jimmy doesn't think either of them were expecting anything to happen, but Jimmy's whole body jumps and he lets out a shocked sound of pleasure. Dean's lips curve into a smirk and he looks at Jimmy again.

"Now _this_ I can do," he says before lowering his head.

And then that surprisingly sensitive circle of flesh is surrounded with wet heat and tight suction. A groan claws its way up Jimmy's throat and he lets his head fall back, too overwhelmed with feeling to hold it up. He clutches at strong shoulders as Dean drags his teeth over Jimmy's nipple and sucks again before moving across his chest to the other one. He alternates between the two for long enough that Jimmy starts to get seriously concerned about coming in his jeans without a single hand on him. Just the thought of that release is so tempting, Jimmy has to squeeze his eyes shut and focus on how embarrassing it would be to keep from losing it right then and there.

Endless minutes later, Dean kisses his way back up Jimmy's chest and dips his tongue into Jimmy's mouth in a tease of a kiss. Jimmy bites down on his bottom lip in retaliation, careful but firm, and the sound Dean makes is heady and addictive. They go back to trading kisses, hard and deep and drugging. Jimmy shoves his hands up the back of Dean's shirt and all of that skin is hot and smooth to the touch.

"Off," Jimmy orders, trying to pull Dean's shirt over his head.

Dean laughs and helps him out with a muffled, "Okay, okay."

The sun's almost set, hurried along by the lingering grip of winter and the sleepy edge of spring, but there's enough light for Jimmy to see by, and he's struck practically dumb by how beautiful Dean is. His body is still fairly lean but more muscled than it was this summer. He looks _strong_ ; there's no other word for it. From his shoulders to his abs, he's almost too gorgeous to be real - more like something out of a movie or one of the bodice-rippers his mom tries to hide under the bed than a senior in high school. Jimmy's pretty sure it should be illegal for anyone to look like this, let alone guys he wants desperately to lick all over.

Jimmy figures he can't be blamed for what he does next.

"Whoa," Dean says when Jimmy shoves him back into the front seat and climbs into his lap.

"What?" Jimmy asks.

He has one hand pressed against Dean's chest and the other tangled in his short hair and Dean just looks at him and shakes his head.

"Nothing,” he says, his voice so low and rough it makes another thread of desire unspool in the pit of Jimmy’s stomach. “I'm cool. This is awesome."

Jimmy presses his smile to the corner of Dean's mouth and Dean tilts his head until they're kissing again. It feels amplified now, the slick movement of their mouths combined with the bare skin of their bellies and chests plastered together when Dean hauls him closer. They're both making soft, breathless noises, hands roaming over shoulderblades and waists and hips.

Jimmy shifts on Dean's lap and swallows Dean's curse when their cocks line up and rub together. Jimmy does it again, grinding down this time. Dean's hands grip Jimmy's ass through his jeans and hold him still. The angle's perfect for Dean to push his hips up and Jimmy locks an arm around Dean's back and pants into his mouth. There is absolutely no way he's going to last and Jimmy can't even bring himself to care anymore. He sucks on Dean's bottom lip and shoves his hips down against Dean's. They keep the same harsh, rocking rhythm up for long enough that Jimmy starts to feel suspended and desperate. He can feel his orgasm coiled tight and ready to snap and he's so _close_ it almost hurts.

"Dean," he gasps out. "Dean, I'm-"

"Yeah," Dean cuts in. He sounds as strung-out as Jimmy feels when he adds, "Do it. Come on."

Jimmy thrusts down one more time, his cock riding up against Dean's in a perfect slide of friction and that's it. Jimmy muffles his shout in Dean's neck as he comes, the sensation of it crashing over him in a wave that blocks out everything in the world but the hard body beneath his for an impossible stretch of time. It takes Jimmy a few minutes to realize Dean's still hard and rolling his hips up, chasing his own release. Jimmy shakes himself and sits back, reaching down to finger the snaps of Dean's jeans.

"Can I?" he asks and Dean squeezes his eyes shut and nods.

"Fuck yes."

Jimmy's hands still feel slow and stupid but he gets the jeans undone and doesn't hesitate to pull Dean's cock out through the slit in his boxers. It's almost bizarre to be holding a dick that isn't his own and Jimmy's surprised at how different it feels. Dean's a little thicker, maybe shorter, but the heat of him is enough to chase away the haze Jimmy's orgasm left him in. He gives an experimental stroke, palm slipping over the slick head, and Dean makes a low noise through clenched teeth.

"Harder," Dean says. "You can go hard. Fast."

Jimmy nods even though Dean can't see it and pulls his hand away to lick his palm and fingers wet before gripping Dean tight. He jerks Dean quick, almost rough, and feels his cock give a mostly reluctant twitch at the sight of his hand flying over Dean's hard length. It only takes a few strokes for Dean to start pushing his hips up and then he reaches down to grip Jimmy's wrist hard as he comes. Jimmy stares, fascinated and turned on, as Dean's cock spurts sticky strands of white over his fist. He slows his strokes and then lets go completely when Dean tugs his hand away.

Dean blinks his eyes open and zeros in on Jimmy's messy fingers. Jimmy follows his gaze and feels the strangest urge to lick them clean. He wants to know what Dean tastes like, wants to see how Dean would react. Before he gets the chance, Dean's grabbed an old rag from the floor of the Impala and starts to carefully wipe Jimmy clean. The fabric is rough and dry but Dean's gentle and quiet and he doesn't shy away after dropping it back to the floor. Instead he reaches up to push both hands through Jimmy's hair before tugging him down for a kiss that's slow and lazy and sweet.

"You good?" Dean asks when he pulls away.

"Definitely," Jimmy answers. "Are you?"

Dean just grins and answers with another kiss.

They don't leave until Dean's stomach starts to growl and Jimmy's gurgles in sympathy. They drag the evening out, finding a diner on the way back into town and lingering there for a couple of hours. By the time Dean gets Jimmy back to his house, it's late. They both have school in the morning and Jimmy figures his parents are either waiting for him or will be holding off on their next guilt trip until tomorrow. He wishes he could at least end the night with a kiss, but he settles for brushing his fingers over Dean's as he gets out of the Impala. The curve of Dean's smile is lit up by a street lamp and Jimmy smiles back before heading inside.

A part of him wants to replay the night over and over, lame as that probably is. Instead, he feels some strange combination of joy and unease and he falls asleep thinking about what Dean had said before.

_I need you to be okay if I'm not here._  



	11. Act One - Chapter Nine

 

They corner him on a Wednesday night. Jimmy's not expecting it when he walks through door and his parents call him into the formal living room. Usually they debrief each other at breakfast or in passing while getting ready for bed, and Jimmy can't remember the last time they used this room for anything other than entertaining guests and hosting holiday parties. He follows his mom's voice with a frown and pauses before walking in. His lips still buzz from the impromptu visit Dean had sprung on him after work and that makes him feel vulnerable. Spending time with Dean these days always leaves Jimmy feeling overwhelmed after, but it's even worse if they've spent any amount of time touching and kissing.

Like always, his mind is a whirling dervish of conflicted thoughts and all he wants is to lay down and sort through them. Dean graduates in less than a month and no matter how much Jimmy pushes, he still won't talk about what he's doing after. Missouri hasn't said a word except to tell Jimmy that Dean didn't apply to any colleges and to say that if he can get Dean to open up, then more power to him. Jimmy figures if Dean won't even talk to Missouri, something's definitely up, and he's running out of time to figure out what to do about it. The last thing he wants when he feels like this is to have to face his parents, but the sound of his mom's voice when she calls him into the room stops him cold and forces him to obey.

His parents are on the couch facing the doorway and they both look up as he walks in. He frowns and stops just across the threshold.

"Is everything okay?" he asks.

"That's what we wanted to ask you," his dad says.

The tone of his voice is gruffer than normal but there's something else there, something hesitant and almost scared. Confused, Jimmy glances at his mom to see her staring down at her shoes. It occurs to him that they're both still dressed from their usual middle-of-the-week Bible study and he wonders if this is going to be one of _those_ talks, another attempt to figure out why he's stopped going to church or talking to any of his old friends from the youth group. Jimmy steels himself for it and meets his father's eyes.

"Everything's fine," he says.

"Really? Because from where we're sitting, it doesn't look that way."

Jimmy fights the urge to roll his eyes. His parents have always been a little melodramatic and he's never blamed them for it before. Considering his childhood and the hell they went through - thinking there was a good chance he wouldn't live to see his sixteenth birthday let alone long enough to start thinking for himself and making his own choices about things - Jimmy's always thought it would be unfair to begrudge them some of the same overreactions to tiny rebellions that other parents got out of their systems early on. Jimmy had been too busy struggling to survive to cause his parents any real trouble and now that he's grown he figures it's only natural for them to make up for lost time. That doesn't mean he finds it any less annoying or pointless. He's a grown man, now, and better off than the doctors had all assumed he'd be when he came out of the coma – perfectly healthy and, at least according to Dean, in perfectly fine shape, too.

All things considered, they don't have anything to worry about and they have even less of a foot to stand on when it comes to trying to strong-arm him into attending church services.

"If this is about church, we've already talked about it," Jimmy says. "I really don't want to get into it again."

"Are you gay, Jimmy?" his mom blurts out.

The words cut through the air between them and reveal the source of the tension in the room. Jimmy stares at her, takes in the flush rising in her cheeks and the way she _still_ can't look him in the eye, and tries to make sense of the question. Turns out he can’t because it just _doesn’t_ make sense. He's been careful. Dean's been doubly so, not wanting to risk it getting back to his classmates or Missouri or, God forbid, his father (unlikely since the elder Winchester is as AWOL as he's ever been). They haven't changed their routine and any disappearances they make on the weekends to get some real alone-time aren't anything out of the norm. It's not like Jimmy's been hoarding porno mags or having phone sex with Dean or something. He doesn't think he's been checking out guys where his parents or anyone who might get word back to them could see.

For the life of him, Jimmy can't figure out where this is coming from so the confused expression he can feel contort his face isn't an act.

"What?" he asks, the word falling dumb and useless between them.

"It's a simple question," his dad says.

"It's really not," Jimmy says before he can stop himself.

There's a lengthy pause and then his parents share a long look, like that's an answer in and of itself.

"Yes or no, Jimmy," Dad finally says.

And God, it's not even a question Jimmy's really asked himself. He knows the answer, obviously. How could he not? It would be impossible for him not to recognize that nine times out of ten, it's a guy turning his head and not a girl. He's not gay in some stereotypical sense; he knows that. The limp-wristed, lisping mockeries he's seen in school hallways and Sunday School classrooms definitely don't apply to him. He's pretty sure no one can look at him and _know_ and anyway. It's not like Jimmy's got a roving eye for every remotely good-looking guy who crosses his path. He's only ever really noticed Dean, only ever been sexually attracted to him. Somewhere deep inside Jimmy knows that if Dean had been born a girl or if he were a drag queen or _whatever_ , it wouldn't matter. Jimmy wouldn't want him any less. He wouldn't love him any differently.

The question is pointless but it's not like Jimmy can tell his parents that. How would he be able to explain that, if anything, he's Dean-sexual? It wouldn't make it any better and in their eyes he wouldn't be any less gay.

For a moment, Jimmy entertains the thought of taking the easy way out. He doesn't want to hurt his parents or mess up their family dynamic. He's been enough of a burden as it is and they've sacrificed so much for him. The last thing he wants is to be ungrateful or difficult. It would be simple to tell them what they want to hear and to keep things as they are. Most importantly, it would keep them happy. There are a lot of things Jimmy would be willing to sacrifice in order to do that for his parents after everything they've done for him, but the words dry up on his tongue and a quiet, "Yes," slips out instead.

The admission hangs in the air, glowing and lurid and toxic. Jimmy knows that he should want to take it back and a part of him does. It's the part that can't help cringing at the twin looks of horror on his parents' faces. The part that wants to wither and die when they lift their eyes and stare at him like he's a stranger. But the rest of him balks at the idea of attempting to back-pedal his way out of this. He can't decide what to do and can't think of a damn thing to say so he stands there, rooted to the spot like there are hooks through his ankles holding him in a tight, painful grip.

"Since when?" Dad asks.

"Since . . . what? What do you mean?" Jimmy asks.

His dad's face clouds over with anger. "Since when have you been convinced you're . . . like this?"

 _Convinced_. Right, like someone talked Jimmy into it. He shakes his head and says, "It's not like that, Dad. I just _am_. I figured it out when we moved here, I guess, but-"

"Was it Dean?" his mom cuts in.

Jimmy swings his gaze to her and tries to ignore the wetness on her cheeks and the way her voice shakes. He's not sure how to proceed here; he thinks he knows what she's asking but it would feel too much like a betrayal to admit that Dean was Jimmy's first clue - his adolescent wet dreams and significant lack of interest in girls being the second and third. His mom's eyes are wide and she stares at him like she's trying to coax something out of him, some admission that she can twist and mold until it makes sense to her. Jimmy balks at giving his parents anything they're looking for.

"I don't know what you're asking," he finally says.

His mom's lips pinch together and her eyebrows draw down in a tight V above her nose. "Jimmy, you've always been . . . attached to Dean and we've never gotten in the way of your friendship. He was good for you when you were both younger but . . ."

She trails off and looks to her husband for help. His cheeks are the brick shade of red they get when he's particularly pissed off about something and trying to "keep his sanctification" as he sometimes says.

"We know he's a worldly boy and if he ever _tempted_ you into anything that wouldn't be your fault. It would be ours for letting this go on as long as it has. I mean, we gave him a _key_ for God's sake. We let you go off with him for days at a time," Dad says.

Jimmy shakes his head before the words are even out of his dad's mouth. "It's not _like_ that," he says.

"Honey, we're not blind. We've seen the way he looks at you."

"Then you must have seen the way I look at him, too," Jimmy says.

It's not the smartest thing he could have said. His dad's eyes narrow down to furious slits and his mom sucks in a sharp breath and looks away. They don't deny it, though. They can't. The truth is, Jimmy's been looking at Dean way longer than Dean's been looking at him and his parents probably know that. They may not want to accept it but that doesn't change anything. Jimmy wonders what they'd think if they knew that between the two of them _he's_ the temptation. Dean's murmured as much in his ear in the backseat of the Impala, fingers slipping over the sweat pooled in the small of Jimmy's back.

"It's like you put some kind of hoodoo whammy one me," he'd told Jimmy once.

"Should I be apologizing for that?" Jimmy'd asked.

"Did I say I had a problem with it?"

It's a running joke between them. Dean teases Jimmy about sneaking up on him like this and Jimmy pokes fun at Dean for corrupting him and the smooth familiarity of their joking makes it easier for them to take the truth behind each sentiment. It's a sore spot for Jimmy that he may have coerced Dean into anything the same way it makes Dean uncomfortable to think he may have somehow done some damage to Jimmy's virtue. It's ironic for Dean to be worried about that when he doesn't even believe in things like God or the devil and remains close-lipped on his opinions about hell, but it's sweet, too.

"All we're saying," Dad says in a firm voice, "is that if that boy's forced you into anything-"

"Dean would never do that," Jimmy cuts in.

His voice is louder than he'd meant for it to be and he feels bad for a split second before it really sinks in that his parents are trying to get him to blame Dean for this. Like Jimmy can't possibly _actually_ be gay, like it must be someone else's fault somehow. Jimmy's insides churn at the thought of taking this out. There are a lot of things that are wrong in the world and there's evil out there, Jimmy knows it. It's not even just the evil Dean's reluctantly shared with him. It's inside of people, the potential that lingers there to commit acts of violence and cruelty and negligence. Jimmy can see in his father's eyes that to his parents _this_ is a kind of evil. For them it may be the worst kind, Jimmy doesn't know. They've never talked about homosexuality before, like it's some kind of dirty secret that goes away if it's ignored long enough.

It hits Jimmy then that maybe they've always suspected, even before Dean. Why else would "gay" be such a dirty word in their house? They've never even talked about it to condemn it, unlike others at their church who have exposed deep reserves of disgust and pity and hatred. It would be just like them to think that avoiding the topic would be as good as ensuring Jimmy's heterosexuality. It's what they'd done after the brain tumor miraculously vanished; suddenly Jimmy had only been "sick" or he'd had a "condition". They didn't talk about the seizures or the vomiting or the fainting spells in descriptive words; they just called them "fits" and left it at that. It was like bringing it up again would bring the tumor back with it.

"Dean wouldn't hurt me," Jimmy adds, trying to sort through the thoughts racing around his head.

"He hurts you every time he's with you," his mom says. "Don't you see that? He's just going to drag you down with him."

Jimmy almost wants to laugh because he knows that Dean would do anything to make sure that doesn't happen. The last thing Dean has ever wanted is for someone to take the fall with, for, or because of him. He shakes his head but doesn't get the chance to speak before his dad steamrolls right over him.

"Look," he says, and his voice has the gravity of a conversation coming to a one-sided close. "You have two choices here. You come with us to see Brother Richards tomorrow and talk this out, you change your behavior, and you stop hanging out with Dean Winchester."

Jimmy knows the question is superfluous but he asks it anyway. "Or?"

His parents share another long look. "Or you leave this house and you don't come back until you're straightened out."

 _Don't come back_. That could mean a lot of things but Jimmy knows it's not about living at home. He's wanted out for years but there's always been some tendril of fear tying him to his family and to this house. Years of being unable to stray too far without blacking out or getting violently, painfully sick have made it hard for Jimmy to shake that need to shroud himself in a safe environment. He's twenty-two. If he leaves now, he won't come back regardless of what happens, because his time spent here is over. He can feel that and his parents have to know it.

The pointed way his dad had spoken the words is what clues Jimmy in and it knocks the air out of his lungs to realize his parents aren't just telling him he can't come back to stay. They're telling him he can't come back _at all_. Jimmy's sure they won't stick by it. They're desperate and upset and probably spent all of tonight's prayer meeting and Bible study hashing this situation out with a bunch of strict, prejudiced, and embittered friends of theirs who insisted this was the only way. Jimmy's seen it happen before with his peers and they had to learn it from somewhere. His parents love him and Jimmy knows that. He's never tested the conditions of that love; he'd always assumed there were none. He'd like to believe that, still, and he thinks it's true. After everything, after all the times they almost lost him, how could his parents possibly be so willing to cut him out of their lives?

But the damage in that moment is done. Jimmy can feel the crack in his heart, an ache blooming in his chest that's so real and painful he wants to lay his hand over it.

"There's nothing wrong with me," Jimmy says.

He _knows_ it, but his parents don't believe him.

"We want you to take some time to think about it. But from now on, Dean's not welcome in this house and we'll take any trip you make to go see him as your decision on this."

And then, just like that, he's dismissed. His parents look away from him, their eyes pointed at different objects in the room. Jimmy could drag it out. He could scream and fight, demand his parents see it his way or else force their hand and make them throw him out. He's too numb to speak, though. His tongue is heavy and dry in his mouth and there's a thick, stinging mass in his throat. When he walks out, they don't say a word.

Jimmy's legs are leaden but he makes it up the stairs and into his bedroom. He collapses onto his bed and closes his eyes and thinks of calling Dean or of packing a bag and just leaving, but he can't. Something ties him to the spot and holds him where he is. His parents want him to think about it, so he does. He thinks until he falls asleep and when he wakes up Dean is the only thing on his mind.

And there, that's his answer.  



	12. Act One - Chapter Ten

 

The last thing Dean expects to see when he rolls out of bed is Jimmy sitting in his desk chair. Dean blinks and fights the urge to pinch himself and make sure this isn't just another one of his tamer wet dreams. Jimmy lifts his head when he hears movement and the look on his face knocks Dean back. He sits down on the edge of his bed again and swallows hard.

"Dude, what is it?" he asks.

Jimmy looks down at his hands again and doesn't answer. Something cold and sharp drips down Dean's spine, reminds him of the first time he set foot in the same house as a vengeful spirit. Even though he can't see Jimmy's eyes anymore, Dean knows by the desolate look to them that something's wrong. Really, really wrong. He wonders if it is the tumor and remembers Jimmy's scary black-out almost a year ago. Dean's convinced Jimmy's about to tell him he's dying and he's so terrified he can taste it, thick and metallic, on the back of his tongue.

"Jimmy, come on. Fucking tell me before I have a heart attack," Dean finally manages to say. "Are you okay?"

In the handful of seconds it takes Jimmy to respond, Dean's tempted to just run away so he doesn't have to listen to the delivery of some devastating news. His fists clench in his lap and he nearly bites through his cheek to hold himself in check. Jimmy lifts his head again and takes in Dean's posture - eyes wide and body rigid - and shakes his head in almost violent jerks.

"Nonono," he says. "Dean I'm okay. I'm fine. Nothing's wrong with me."

The words filter through the shield Dean's hastily tried to put up to protect himself from whatever it is Jimmy has to say and the punch of relief is practically physical. Dean slumps over and scrubs a hand over his face. He almost doesn't want to believe it because Jimmy looks awful. He's paler than normal and his eyes are rimmed red where they aren't hollowed out by dark, sick-looking circles. Dean shifts closer to edge of the seat and kicks out at Jimmy's foot, knocking his toes against Jimmy's ankle.

"You just scared the shit out of me you motherfucking _asshole_ ," he breathes.

Jimmy's smile is crooked and small. "Sorry. I didn't mean to freak you out. I just . . . I didn't have anywhere else to go so I let myself in and came up here."

Dean darts a glance at his bedside clock to see that it's barely half after five. Usually Dean's stretched and running already, getting in his usual early morning training. As far as he knows, Jimmy hates seeing the north-end of noon unless he has a really good reason for it and especially not on Saturdays. He's missing something and it takes a few seconds for what Jimmy said to register.

"What do you mean you didn't have anywhere else to go?" Dean asks.

The words come out slower than he'd meant them and he winces at how patronizing he probably sounds, but he has to know if Jimmy's saying what Dean _thinks_ he's saying.

"What do you think?" Jimmy asks. His voice has a biting quality to it that he only gets when he feels cornered or defensive.

"Hey, I'm on your side, here," Dean says, trying to head off a fight.

Jimmy looks at him for a long moment and then nods and leans over, elbows resting on his thighs and head dropped into his hands. "They kicked me out," he says. "I mean, they gave me a choice but it's still the same thing. They can't even look at me."

"Okay, hold up," Dean says. "Your parents? They love the hell out of you, man. Why would they kick you out?"

"They asked me if I was gay. I said yes."

Jimmy says it calmly enough but there's a tremble to his hands that tells Dean everything he needs to know. It's stupid that this should be so unexpected, right? The Novaks being who and what they are. It's just that Dean's always assumed that their love for their son trumps their faith. He doesn't understand how they can do this to Jimmy, how they can live with themselves having put this heartbroken look on his face. And then Dean realizes this is his fault, at least partly, and the guilt sinks its teeth in and refuses to let go.

"How did they find out? I mean, we were careful, right? I didn't think-"

"Can you not do the martyr thing right now?" Jimmy asks.

Dean snaps his jaw shut and tries to ignore the swell of hurt in his gut. "Fine," he bites out. "Then what are you here for?"

Jimmy lifts his head and a series of expressions race across his face - incredulity, anger, resignation - before his features go oddly blank and he says, "I chose you, Dean. They told me it was you or them and I came here. I picked you."

Those words hit Dean with a force that nearly knocks him back. The last time he can remember someone's words settling on his shoulders like this, like the weight of the fucking world, it was his dad telling him to look after Sammy, take care of Sammy, do anything to protect Sammy. Dean understood the importance of those orders then and he understands the importance of what Jimmy's saying now but he's not sure he likes it. That's just . . . that's too much. That's more than any one person's ever asked of him outside of his own father and look how that turned out. Dean fucks up everything and that's why he's been so hesitant to take this thing between him and Jimmy too seriously. Without a label, without any declarations or promises, it's one less thing Dean has to constantly worry about screwing up.

Except it's even bigger than that, now. This isn't Jimmy asking if they can be boyfriends or something equally lame. This is Jimmy telling his parents to fuck off because he'd rather be with Dean and how can anyone live with that pressure?

The silence between them stretches and Jimmy's expression gets more and more closed off. Dean knows there's a right thing to say here but he can't come up with it. He's scared again, that same cold feeling from earlier, but he doesn't want to be. He doesn't get how the prospect of Jimmy caring about him that much could ever be half as terrifying as the idea of losing him completely but there it is. Dean's fucking _scared_ and he has the feeling Jimmy knows.

There's a knock on the door followed by Missouri walking in and flicking on the light. It chases away the faded glow of morning that had been seeping through the windows and Dean blinks rapidly to adjust to the brightness.

"Jimmy, honey, is there any particular reason you just had to sneak into Dean's room before the _sun's_ even woken all the way up, yet?"

Her voice is casual but when Dean gets a look at her face he can tell that she knows. Her eyes are warm with understanding and shaded over with the kind of reluctance she always seems to have when her psychic mojo susses something out about a loved one. She tries her best to stay out of their business, Dean knows, but it doesn't always work like that. Jimmy's always been uncomfortable whenever she's come to him with preternatural insight, but this time he lurches off his feet and all but falls into her arms.

Dean shifts on the bed and looks away when he hears the first of Jimmy's quiet sobs. Missouri's arms come up around him and haul him in close.

"Shhhhh," she soothes, rubbing a hand over his hair. "It'll be all right, I promise."

Jimmy just clutches her and cries and Dean squeezes his eyes shut against the desperate ache he feels at the sound. He can't help but think if he weren't such a dick that would be him offering comfort. Instead he's all the way across the room trying to hide from Missouri's searching gaze and the worst part about it is that he's relieved she's here to do this because he doesn't think he could.

"You know," Missouri says, "your father's not a bad man."

Dean's not surprised to hear her voice behind him. He's been sitting out on the porch for a while, staring out at the sleepy suburb he's called home for a good portion of his life now. It doesn't seem surreal anymore and that scares him. The ease with which he's adapted when he'd come to Missouri convinced he could never survive a static, normal life. It fits him like a glove, but gloves are man-made and eventually it's time to slip them off and get reacquainted with the skin underneath.

As happy as Dean's been here, he's still always had that itch under his skin demanding he go out and finish what his father started. It's been a quiet life since he’s come back to Lawrence, no evil spirits to speak of, no monsters, no mysterious deaths. But Dean's heard the whispers of crazy shit going down in neighboring towns or across state lines. He can help people, _save_ people. It's what his dad was training him to do before dumping him here. Dean's always known he'd go back to it but now there's Jimmy and that confuses things. Dean can't just take him along but does that mean he should stay? And if he does stay, is he just tying himself down to one person for the long haul with the expectation that they'll what? Move in together some day? Be "life partners" or something equally as gay?

Dean wants Jimmy. Even if he wanted to go back to those months of denial, he can't. That stupid bastard's wormed his way in and he's as good as family now. Well, by certain, non-incestuous definitions of the word, anyway. Even now, as Missouri walks forward and settles onto the steps next to Dean, he's aware of Jimmy asleep in his bed and how a part of him wants to be there, too.

"But?" Dean prompts.

Missouri sighs and Dean startles when he feels her hand on his back.

"But he's been a piss-poor example of what it means to love somebody," she says.

Her voice has a hard edge to it that Dean only ever hears from her when she's talking about stubborn clients and his father. Deep down he knows he can't really argue but he does so anyway out of loyalty.

"He's done his best," Dean says.

Missouri scoffs. "Dean, you're a grown man yourself, now, and I'm not gonna sugar-coat this for you. You adore your father and I understand why but at some point you need to learn that there's more to life than always leaving behind the people you care about."

Dean winces. "I'm not-"

"Do _not_ lie to my face, Dean Winchester, or I will kick your ass so hard you'll still be feeling it a month from now. I know what you've been planning and I'm sure Jimmy does, too."

It's not a subject he's brought up with either of them but he's not surprised. Missouri _would_ know, psychic or not. She has that motherly intuition that's always creeped Dean out a little. And Jimmy . . . well, he's suspected for a while and no amount of hand-waving and subject-changing has done much good. Dean hasn't told him about his plans yet, first because he was scared to and then because he wasn't sure he even _wanted_ to, not anymore. Now he's stuck in a limbo of decision-making and the last thing he wants is to be confronted by it.

"I don't know what I'm gonna do," Dean says.

He sounds about as surly as he feels but he melts into Missouri's side when she puts her arm around him.

"You're gonna do what you have to," Missouri tells him. "But I'm telling you right now: there's a young man in there who just gave up everything for you and I'm sure that scares you. It should. If it didn't, I'd be worried you don't understand just how big this all is. Since you do understand, you have to know how much it's gonna hurt him when you leave."

Dean ducks his head and frowns. "I don't want to hurt him. He's my best friend."

"He's a whole lot more than _that_ ," Missouri says.

There's another thing he hasn't actually told Missouri, or anyone, but it figures she'd know. Even if she doesn't have all the details, Dean has to admit that he and Jimmy have never just been best friends. It's not like it isn't kind of ridiculously obvious - after all, if Dean can pick up on it then anyone can.

They're quiet for a moment, watching a few minivans and beat-up cars putter down the street. Missouri is warm and soft and Dean has to fight the urge to tuck himself closer to her and hang on for a good, long while. He never really lets himself accept these offerings of comfort from her. It feels strange to be so vulnerable with another person, even one he knows would never take advantage. But just this once, with everything starting to lose balance and fall down around his ears, he can't help himself.

"I'm not saying it'll be easy," Missouri says. "But there's a right way and a wrong way to do this. You'll figure it out. Just try not to break that poor boy's heart in the process, would you?"

Dean snorts out a laugh. "Thanks for the vote of confidence," he mutters.

She cuffs him on the back of the head and he jerks forward with a tiny yell.

"If I didn't believe in you, you really think I'd waste my breath having a heart-to-heart with you? I know how much you hate these little talks."

Dean tilts his head and looks at her.

"They aren't so bad, I guess."

 

Good things aren't made to last and Dean isn't sure how he ever managed to forget it. It's not like his shitty life hasn't done its damndest to teach him the lesson over and over again. Everything that's ever meant something to Dean has left him. By now he should know to expect it, but for some reason he's too much of a dumb fuck to have it figured out, yet. The civilian life, he thinks bitterly, has made him complacent. Soft. _Weak_.

The house is appropriately quiet as Dean stuffs a few last minute items in one of Dad's old rucksacks. He's had the essentials packed for a while, now, a bag of clothes and basic toiletries left sitting in the corner of his closet as a reminder of the choice he's been putting off. On the one hand, Dean always knew he'd end up here. The choice was never going to be much of one at all. Regardless of the life he's had since his dad dumped him on Missouri's doorstep, it's not the one Dean was ever _meant_ to have. It's just that he'd thought for a while there, secretly and with a shameful amount of hope, that there might be something else out there for him. He'd started training with a certain set of expectations and the last few months have dashed those completely.

It's all Jimmy's fault and Dean can't help but be pissed about it. The stupid bastard wormed his way past Dean's defenses, burrowed deep into Dean's skin, made Dean _feel_ a whole mess of shit that he can't escape no matter how hard he tries. Admittedly, Dean hasn't tried very hard lately. He's been waving the damn white flag for longer than he'd ever want to admit and it hasn't made anything better. For a minute, maybe, but now Jimmy's lost his family and Dean can't bring himself to apologize for being a dick and they haven't said more than a handful of words to each other in days. Shit like this is too fucking complicated and it gets in the way of things. Dean knows what he has to do now - he has no choice - but it weighs on him like a boulder welded to his shoulders when it should be easy to pack up and walk away.

The rucksack sits on the bed, heavy with its contents and out of place among Dean's rumpled bedclothes and the posters on the wall and the domestic odds and ends that clutter the bedside table. The last time Dean did this, he and his dad were fleeing an abandoned shack in the middle of nowhere. Dean still had Sammy's blood on his shirt and Dad'd had to haul him everywhere because he was too numb to make his hands and feet move. The time before that, Dean had challenged Sammy to a race to get his brother out of bed and all packed up. They'd been in some roadside motel that smelled like bleach and cigarette smoke and Sammy had stuffed all of his shit in his own bag without bothering to fold it, all so he could zip it up and shoot Dean a shit-eating, gotcha grin while Dean was still trying to get everything to fit.

The way things can change so drastically from one day to the next is another of the life lessons Dean's apparently forgotten. A week ago everything was fine and then it was a little worse and then Bobby had called. Dean squeezes his eyes shut and thinks about the man's voice on the other end of the line, terse and gruff and telling him his dad's gone missing and he thought Dean might like to know. There hadn't been any details outside of that and while Bobby promised to keep his eyes and ears peeled, it was obvious he thought the situation was serious. Dad's gotten pretty damn good at disappearing ever since Sam died, but Bobby's never called before. The last time Dad had rolled through town - for a whole three hours, even - he'd told Dean that he was closing in on the thing that had killed Mom and Sam. A demon, his dad said, yellow-eyed and tough to track.

Whether or not that demon's what finally got its hooks in Dad, Dean doesn't know. But he sure as shit ain't sitting around waiting to find out. Bobby hadn't said to come but Dean's going anyway. He can't _not_.

He reaches out to buckle up the rucksack and pauses, his eyes locking on the bracelet circling his wrist. He fingers the beads and slides it over his wristbone and halfway up his hand.

"What the _hell_?"

Dean's heart leaps up into his throat and he whips around so quickly he's dizzy with the momentum. The bracelet slides back into place but Dean's heart stays right where it is, a solid, painful lump that makes it hard to breathe. Jimmy's in the doorway and his eyes are wide and _livid_ , bright blue and keeping Dean pinned to the spot. Tension rolls in to settle between them like thick, humid air before a summer storm.

"Why aren't you at work?" Dean asks even though he knows it’s a poor excuse for an answer.

Jimmy's eyes narrow. "You're leaving," he says.

His voice is flat but sharp enough around the edges to make Dean wince. He hates that Jimmy can make him respond like this, like he's been caught doing something awful, and anger unfurls hot and jagged in his gut.

"And you figured that one out all on your own, too," Dean says.

Jimmy's expression contorts with hurt but he schools his face into something blank and foreign before it gets a chance to stick. That glimpse of it is enough to make Dean feel sick, though, and then he hates himself for it. Anger, he decides, is much more manageable than guilt and he likes the taste of it on the back of his tongue better. So he rolls with that, letting all of his frustrations with Jimmy float to the surface, allowing it all to show on his face.

"You're a real asshole, you know that?" Jimmy says, his own anger leaking out into his tone.

Dean forces his body to relax and shrugs his shoulders. "So I've heard," he says. "Look, I don't have time for this, okay? I have to go."

This is exactly the kind of situation Dean had hoped to avoid by leaving while Jimmy was at work and Missouri was out with friends. Jimmy's reaction isn't surprising, but the way it makes Dean want to simultaneously punch him in the fucking face and promise never to leave is. It's the same desperate tug of war he's been struggling with for a while now and he's sick of it. His dad needs him; that should make this easy.

The coarse fabric of the bag bites into Dean's palm when he grips the strap and he hesitates to sling it over his shoulder. He tightens his hold, bites down hard on his bottom lip and picks up the bag. It weighs a fucking ton even though Dean knows there's nothing heavier in there than a battered copy of _One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest_ , a gift from Jimmy a couple of Christmases ago. Fucking _Jimmy_.

Dean grits his teeth and turns to walk out of the room, keeping his eyes on the doorway so he doesn't have to look at Jimmy's face when he passes. He's almost home free, one foot over the threshold, when Jimmy grabs Dean's wrist in a grip so tight it hurts and yanks him back. Dean drops the bag and turns into Jimmy, reaching out to shove him with a hand to his chest. Jimmy stumbles back a step, eyes wide. They haven't gotten physical with each other like this in years; they were still teenagers the last time it happened and Dean can still remember how he'd been more sad than satisfied when he'd split Jimmy's lip that day.

For a second Dean thinks Jimmy's going to back off. And then Jimmy surges forward. His hands close over Dean's shoulders with a grip so strong Dean thinks there'll be bruises. Jimmy's momentum carries them both and a strong shove has Dean up against the wall with a loud thud. The impact jars Dean enough that he doesn't even think of fighting back and then he makes the mistake of catching Jimmy's gaze and knows he won't be moving again until Jimmy lets him; not because Dean couldn't take Jimmy out, obviously, but because he won't. Because he's never been able to stop himself from getting stuck in that blue-eyed stare, sinking right into it like quicksand.

"I thought you were better than this," Jimmy says in a voice that's practically a growl. "I didn't take you for a coward."

"Shut the fuck up. You don't know anything about it!"

"I know you were gonna sneak out of here because you're too scared to _talk_ to me-"

"It's none of your goddamn business what I do," Dean cuts in, glaring at Jimmy with as much as heat as he sees in Jimmy's eyes.

Jimmy shoves at Dean's shoulders, knocks him into the wall so hard Dean's head snaps back and his skull collides with the wall. "You _are_ my business, Dean. You always have been."

Dean sneers and feels something unnamable bubble up in his gut and coat his tongue in something that feels toxic and tastes like bile. "I'm nothing to you. I never have been. Because you're nothing to me. Not in the ways that matter."

Fingers bite into Dean's shoulderblades and then fall slack. Jimmy looks like he's just been punched and Dean wants to throw up.

"Dean," Jimmy says, but Dean isn't done yet.

"You're not my family," he says even though the words hurt like only the worst of lies can. "My home's on the road. I belong out there with my dad, doing what he taught me. I was never gonna stay here and play house with you. That's not me, man. So no, I'm not your fucking business."

Jimmy's hands fall away and he finally drops his eyes to the ground. All the air rushes out of Dean's body and leaves him deflated. Neither of them move, not until Jimmy lifts his head and fixes Dean with a look that's so broken it hurts to look at.

" _Fuck you_ ," he says.

The sound of his voice is like ice and freezes Dean to the spot. Jimmy stares at him for a long moment and then leaves so quickly it's like he's vanished. Dean blinks at the suddenly empty space in front of him and then summons thoughts of his dad, in danger out there somewhere. Family's always come first and no matter what he and Jimmy have - _had_ \- Dean's dad is his priority. The house is even quieter now, hushed like a tomb. It doesn't feel right and Dean wonders what Missouri will think, coming home to negative energy and Dean gone. He feels a pang of regret for doing it this way but he forces himself not to regret doing it at all. It's time for him to be a good son again.

Every step sounds loud as Dean descends the stairs. He keeps his eyes peeled for Jimmy but there's no one around. Even the street's quiet and empty when Dean locks the front door behind him. There's nothing to stop him, now, and he throws the bag in the trunk of the Impala and slides into the driver's seat. The car gives a comforting rumble when he starts her up and they head off together, chasing sunlight as they head for the highway.

Dean's mind stays blissfully blank for an hour and then he glances down at his hands white-knuckling the steering wheel like there's a whole pack of something fanged, ugly, and mean chasing him down. Dean loosens his grip and then catches sight of the bracelet still snug against his wrist. He'd meant to leave it with Jimmy; it had been the only kind of promise Dean could think to make knowing that he's going out into a life he may not come back from. It was supposed to mean something. It would have given Dean a reason to go back at all.

The car jerks as Dean drives off the road, spitting gravel and dirt behind him. He slams brakes and barely gets the door open before he's puking all over the side of the road, acid burning its way up his throat and sticking to all the corners of his mouth. He heaves for a good five minutes and even after he's thrown up everything in his stomach and then some, his belly aches. Dean spits a few times and then closes the door again. The sun's just starting to set and Dean watches it blearily through the windshield until it's just an orange haze on the horizon.  



	13. Act Two - Chapter Eleven

**  
**

 

 

The small piece of paper in Dean's palm is soft and faded from all the times he's pulled it out and unfolded it just to shove it back into his pocket. He figures the number scrawled across it will be legible for another couple of weeks at most before the creases in the paper have eaten it completely. There's no reason for him to be carrying it around like this. He could've slipped it into Dad's journal for safe-keeping or committed it to memory. Even if he loses it, chances are Missouri will be willing to give it to him again. But that would mean explaining why he doesn't have it anymore and telling her why it's so important for him to keep calling and asking for a number he obviously isn't going to put to use.

Dean runs his thumb over the digits and jumps when a palm smacks the driver's side window.

"Fuck!"

Ruby just grins at him and raps her knuckles against the glass. Dean glares at her and rolls the window down.

"How many times do I have to tell you to play nice with my fucking car?" Dean growls.

"How many times do I have to ignore you before you figure out I just don't care?" she asks.

The urge to shank her with her own knife is strong but that's pretty much par for the course. Almost every case the two of them have worked has eventually led to police officers and grieving families alike questioning their antagonistic relationship.

"My only love sprung from my only hate," Ruby usually says.

Dean honestly doesn't care what people think of the two of them. They work well together and regardless of what Ruby is - and yes, Dean's aware of how stupidly dangerous it is to discredit it - she's an ally. She's been one of the few Dean can count on, in fact, so he takes most of her demonic idiosyncrasies in stride. The way she treats his baby, though, is unacceptable and she only does it to get a rise out of him. Riling Dean up's probably the only thing that brings her anything resembling true joy outside of perfectly seasoned French Fries and the satisfaction of ganking her fellow demons.

She looks positively gleeful at the moment, a smirk curling her lips up at the corners and her eyes almost sparkling. It's unnerving to see a demon look like this; even after two years Dean hasn't gotten used to it yet.

"You know," she says, "I can throw that away for you if you want."

A small, slender hand reaches through the window and grabs at the slip of paper. Dean pulls it out of reach. "It's not trash," he says.

"Right. And walking around with a number you'll never have the balls to dial is _normal_. You know, I don't remember humanity involving such painful bouts of stupidity but hey, maybe that was just me."

Dean rolls his eyes and shoves the piece of paper into his jacket pocket. "Why don't you mind your own business?"

Ruby pulls her hand back and crosses her arms over her chest. When she narrows her eyes at him, they flash dark in a way that's still enough to freak him out - not full-black, but letting out a glimmer of the creature cased inside its pretty blonde exterior.

"Anything that takes your mind off the hunt _is_ my business," she says. "You've been more distracted than usual and if Meg gets her hands on the Colt before we do, that's my ass on the line. So either stop being a pussy and make the fucking phone call or give me the number so I can burn it."

She holds out her hand again, palm up, and Dean stares at it for a moment before her pulls the paper out of his pocket again. He fingers the worn edge of it and then slides the keys out of the ignition. Ruby gives him a smug look as he rolls the window back up and nearly clips her with the car door when he jerks it open.

"Attaboy," she says. "I knew I didn't partner up with a total loser."

"Do you _ever_ shut up?" Dean asks.

There's a pointed silence off to his left, not that Dean was expecting much else. He accepts the reprieve and they make their way into the small diner on the corner. Ruby mimes exaggeratedly that she's going to get them the booth in the back and in the meantime Dean should find a payphone. He flips her off, much to the chagrine of the older man who comes to seat them, and wanders off toward the back. There's a small alcove that leads to the bathrooms, both of which Dean is willing to bet are equally disgusting. There's also a phone nestled in between the doors and Dean hesitates for a moment before he walks up to it. The receiver is gummy in his palm, gross from decades of hands in various states of filthy using it to make phonecalls that probably aren't so dissimilar from this one.

Dean grimaces and then rifles through his pockets for change. The actual call takes him more than five minutes to make because he keeps pausing and freaking out and thinking that this is a really terrible idea. He hasn't even talked to Jimmy since he walked out of Missouri's. Every plan Dean had for going back home got delayed - first because Dad was missing and then because Dad was . . . well. Not missing anymore. It's been non-stop hunts for the last two years, working with Ruby to track Azazel _and_ Meg _and_ the Colt. Dean's had his reasons for not going back home and his reasons for not calling, but he knows they double as excuses. He's done his level best to avoid having to talk to Jimmy because he doesn't know what he'll say; if he's being perfectly honest, he's a little afraid that Jimmy will have written him off by now. That's news Dean would rather get through the grapevine.

But Missouri's been tight-lipped about information about Jimmy. She was reluctant to even hand the number over after Jimmy moved and that was six months ago. Dean doesn't even know why he's doing this _now_. It's definitely not because he's scared of Ruby. They foster an atmosphere of mutual hatred and respect that means they can be at each other's throats all day long but they stopped trying to hurt each other in ways that matter a long time ago. She has a point, though. Dean's mind just isn't in the game. He's been thinking about Jimmy non-stop for days and maybe making this call will fix that.

Besides, it's Jimmy's birthday. Dean might as well, right?

He finally gets his numb fingers to finish dialing and the phone rings and rings in his ear. He alternates between hoping Jimmy picks up and begging him not to. When there's no answer, Dean feels a gut-punch sensation of relief and disappointment mixed up together.

"This is Jimmy. I'm not in right now but leave a message and I'll get back to you as soon as possible."

The beep is loud and jarring and Dean didn't really plan this far ahead.

"Um," he mutters. "Hey. It's me. Dean."

Jesus fuck, could he be any more _lame_? Dean rubs the back of his neck, aware that time's ticking by and he doesn't have very long but unable to think of anything to say.

"I just wanted to say Happy Birthday. I know I missed it last year and-" Dean cuts himself off because an apology would be useless over the phone and if he ever gets to say it, it's going to be to Jimmy's face. "That's all, I guess. Take care of yourself, okay? Remember all the shit I taught you."

Dean hangs up before he can say anything else and stares at the phone for a long moment. He feels unsatisfied, like there's something he should have said or done and he fucked up somewhere. Not that that's new. Dean's always fucking up. He sighs and looks down at his dirty hands with a curled lip. Ruby's probably out there ordering something disgusting for him but he really can't bring himself to care. There's never any hurry for him to get back to her, not unless it's an emergency, and he could use a minute to shake this distraction off.

The men's bathroom is, as predicted, unsanitary at best. The floor is made up of tiles that are cracked and damp. The urinals are stained and the walls have been scrawled on by a countless number of bored and lonely losers. It's even worse than the usual diner facilities and Dean almost feels dirtier having stepped inside than he thinks he would have if he'd just gone straight to the table. He walks up to the sink anyway, grateful for a full soap dispenser and hot water.

The fluorescent lights start to flicker as Dean's wiping his hands on his t-shirt and cursing the lack of paper towels. He freezes and narrows his eyes up at them; they lights keep spazzing out, the hum of the long bulbs cracking and buzzing in time with the flares from bright to dim. That's no wiring glitch and Ruby's dramatic entrances are brief these days. Dean swallows hard and reaches behind himself, feeling for the gun he keeps tucked up agains the small of his back. His fingers close around it just as the lighting steadies again, the fluourescent bulbs resuming their monotonous tune.

"If I couldn't see just what you were packing in those jeans of yours, I'd think you were happy to see me."

Dean spins around to see Meg leaning against the far wall. She fits right into the decor, from her smirk to her uneven hair right on down to her scuffed boots. Dean sneers at her and draws his gun.

"What the fuck do you want?"

Meg grins and pushes off of the wall. Each step she takes toward him echoes through the bathroom with a click of heel on tile.

"You and I need to have a little chat," she says. "Preferably without your girlfriend around. I don't like to share, I hope that's not a problem."

Dean keeps his gun aimed at her even though he knows a bullet won't do much but slow the bitch down.

"She's kinda the jealous type," Dean says.

"So _those_ are the kinds of girls you go for."

She keeps her approach slow just like always. Dean doesn't think he's ever seen Meg in a rush. It's like she knows that no one can stop her and she has all the time in the world to do whatever it is she wants. It pisses him off. Hell, her continued fucking _existence_ pisses him off, and he can't help but wonder where the fuck Ruby is with that knife of hers.

"Don't worry, though," Meg says as if she can read Dean's mind. "I'm keeping her _plenty_ busy."

There's a crash from the main dining room and Dean whips his head toward the door on a reflex. It's a dumb move. Meg seizes her chance, darting in to grip his wrist in fingers that tighten like iron bands until he grunts and lets the gun slip from his fingers.

Meg grins and leans in close. When she speaks, her breath smells like cinnamon and death.

"Oh, you and I are going to have such a good time."

Dean barely registers the rapid approach of her knuckles before they collide with his face. There's sharp pain and then nothing at all.

 

Consciousness returns to Dean gradually. The first thing he's aware of is the throbbing ache of his nose, a pain that spikes just behind his eyes and makes his entire skull pound. There are other discomforts; his legs are numb and his shoulders and back hurt. It takes him a few minutes to realize it's because his ankles are strapped to a chair and his arms are tied behind his back. The smell hits him next - something damp and putrid. He's fairly sure he must be in a basement somewhere, the kind with streams of mysterious liquid staining the walls and leaving puddles on the concrete floor. When he opens his eyes he can't see much and his head hurts too much for him to be able to adjust his eyesight quickly.

He can't hear much. Every few minutes there's the whir of something that may be a car overhead but he can't be sure. It's impossible to focus even when the grogginess gives way and he's more alert. He fingers the rope binding his hands and strains to see if he can loosen the knot but it's no good. All that does is earn him some scraped skin and probably a few bruises to go along with it. The chair's bolted to the floor and he can't reach the knife in his boot. So, basically, he's fucked.

Dean lets his head drop to his chest and exhales slowly. It's important to stay calm, he knows. Meg feeds off anxiety and fear. Every time they've met in the past she's used any sign of Dean's emotions to her own advantage. It's how she'd nearly killed him the first time, how she'd gotten the drop on him this time. Dean feels too much for a hunter, he knows that. Ruby's told him, Bobby's told him, even his dad had during their last conversation before Azazel caught up to him. Bobby says it's an inevitability given how long he spent living the civilian life but that doesn't make it any less of a liability, either.

There's a big chance that Ruby didn't make it out of that diner in one piece and she's rattling around in the pit right now. Given some time Dean might be able to work a Houdini-type miracle and get himself out of this, but he's not going to hold his breath. Chances are he really is as screwed as he feels but he's not giving up yet.

If there's one benefit to being an emotional kind of hunter, it's that Dean's got something to live for. Granted that something is miles away and probably hates him, but Dean doesn't care. Thoughts of Jimmy and Missouri and his unfinished business with Azazel are the only things that keep him going when he ends up in deep shit like this. As Dean's headache starts to recede he thinks this happens way more often than he's comfortable with.

The click of Meg's boots approaches from off to his left, muffled by the walls and door that separate them. Dean goes still and calms his breathing, twisting his wrists again in hopes that he can find some way to slip out of the ropes. The door sounds heavy when it opens, swinging inward like its weighted down with steel. A shaft of light cuts through the room, casting Meg in a shifting silouhette, and then the overhead lights flick on and blind Dean momentarily. The pain in his skull flares up again and he winces against it, so preoccupied with being disoriented that he doesn't notice Meg's come close until she plops herself right in his lap.

"I usually save the whips and chains for the fourth or fifth date," she says, leaning in close enough that her lips nearly brush his, "but I like you so much I thought why wait?"

"I feel so special," Dean says.

"Good. Then maybe this will be relatively painless for you. Then again, that _would_ make it way less fun for me."

Dean rolls his eyes and stares down the malevolent smile on her face and the cruel glint in her borrowed eyes.

"What is with you demons and your neverending bullshit?" he asks.

"We like to hear ourselves talk," Meg says with a shrug. "But I'm more interested in what _you_ have to say, Dean. Tell me what I want to hear and I might kill you all quick and boring-like."

"Burn in hell, bitch."

Meg moves so quickly Dean doesn't see her strike so much as he feels it, her knuckles connected with his cheek in a brutal backhand that feels like it has hundreds of pounds of weight behind it. He bites down on his tongue and tastes blood.

"Been there, done that, bought the t-shirt," Meg growls. "Now tell me where John hid the Colt."

Dean spits out the thick taste of copper onto the floor and then lifts his head to look Meg in her creepy little eyes.

"Didn't your daddy ever tell you no means no?"

The backhand comes from the other side this time, harder than before if that's possible. Dean's neck snaps to the side and he swallows down a grunt of pain.

"I'm waiting, Dean."

This time he doesn't bother looking at her when he hisses out, "Fuck you."

A weight lifts off of his body as Meg rises to her own two feet. The relief of having her a little further away is short-lived.

"Fine," she says in a voice that's hard and angry.

She hauls back and punches him in the stomach so hard he thinks he'd throw up if he'd eaten at all recently. The fact that he doesn't tells him he's been here for a while and that doesn't make him feel much better about his current situation. She hits him again, in the side this time. The pain after that is white-hot and the breath he drags in only intensifies the sensation. She keeps after him long after the body she's wearing shows little signs of strain - bloody knuckles that she barely gives the chance to heal over, sweat along her hairline. Dean's head isn't the thing that hurts the most any more and he knows he's amassing a nice collection of bruises, cracked ribs, and the possible internal hemmorage or two.

By the time she slows down, Dean's barely hanging on to consciousness. He'd love nothing more than to pass out and escape the pain, but if he's going out he's doing it with his eyes open.

"Still not gonna talk?" Meg asks.

It takes muscles that scream in agony for Dean to lift his head. When he does, he spits right in her face. She wipes away the gob of blood and phlegm with the back of her hand and blinks once. Her eyes are jet black when she reopens her eyes and her body trembles with barely contained anger.

"You're not death-proof, Dean," she says.

Her voice rumbles out of her chest with enough hatred to make a shiver race up Dean's spine. He strains backward when her hands come up to cradle his skull and he knows what's coming, is already tensed in anticipation of the snap of his neck and the severing of his spinal cord. They're so intent on each other - Dean staring down the eyes of the creature that kidnapped his father and led him to his death and wants to deliver the same fate to his son - that takes seconds for them to notice the flickering of the lights. Meg's hold loosens and she starts to turn her head and then goes rigid, her eyes wide and her fingers scrabbling at Dean's hair.

Dean glances down to see the tip of Ruby's knife slide through Meg's throat. Meg makes a choked sound and reaches up to feel at the wound but it's no use.

"Neither are you, you dumb bitch," Ruby hisses into Meg's ear.

Meg gurgles again, her skin starting to glow red-orange around the blade of the knife. Ruby pulls it out with a slick sound and the glow grows, crawling across Meg's skin like vines, raised in a vein-like pattern. Dean's seen this before, obviously, but it's never felt half as satisfying as it does now and he watches it all, right up until all life, demonic or otherwise, is burned out of Meg's eyes. Her body slumps sideways and falls to the floor. Ruby sneers at it for a long moment and then kicks it out of the way and turns her attention to Dean.

"Great timing," he says even though talking hurts like a bitch.

"You know me," Ruby tells him. "I like to make an entrance."

She crouches down and cuts through the ropes holding Dean captive. He lurches to his feet and almost falls over. Weakness and pain are like weights tighed to his wrists and ankles and neck and it takes an almost inhuman effort just to keep upright. Ruby wipes her blade off on Meg's shirt and then slides herself under Dean's arm. It's a relief to be able to let her carry his weight, even if he hates being this weak around her. She did just save his life, though. That counts for something.

They make their way out of what turns out to be an abandoned office building, go figure, and out onto a dark street. It's drizzling and the chill of the water on his skin is refreshing. It doesn't soothe any of the aches, but it reminds Dean that he's alive and that's something worth being happy about. Ruby leads the way to the Impala and Dean stares at it for a second before tilting his head to glare at her.

"Tell me you didn't," he says.

She props him up against the passenger door.

"Keys," she says.

Dean just stares at her and she rolls her eyes. Her hands search his pockets before they finally find the car keys in his jacket. She tugs them out and unlocks the door.

"You hotwired my car," he says instead of getting inside.

"You can bitch me out later," Ruby tells him. "Just get in. Yellow-Eyes will be here soon and when he sees what I did to Meg, your car will be the last of your worries."

Dean wants to argue but he's honestly too tired and Ruby makes sense. From what they've gathered, Meg's one of Azazel's favorites. Even roughing her up a bit has been enough to piss him off in the past. Neither of them are in any condition to take him on and even if Dean _was_ , without the Colt it would be a suicide mission at best. He slides into the Impala without Ruby's help and collapses against the door as soon as she shuts it behind him. Letting her drive his car is kind of a last resort but it would be stupid to raise a fuss. Ruby gets in and starts the car up, peeling out without so much as a pause.

They've been on the road for almost half an hour when Dean thinks to ask where they're going.

"Singer's," Ruby answers. She glances sideways at him and then turns back to the road. "You're in shit shape. You can recover there and I'll see what I can dig up on the Colt."

Dean closes his eyes and leans his head against the window. "I'm starting to think maybe my dad really did find it," Dean mutters.

Whatever Ruby might have said in reply is lost to another wave of unconsciousness.

 

They hole up at Bobby's for a few weeks, much to the older man's chagrine.

"You know how much I hate having monsters like her in my house," Bobby says while he's wrapping Dean's ribs up and icing as many of the more prominent bruises as he can.

"She saved my life, Bobby," Dean says. "I can't _not_ trust her after that."

Bobby's silent on the subject but he's obviously not convinced. It doesn't matter much anyway because after Ruby makes sure Dean's settled and plans on staying put, she's off God knows where chasing down leads on the Colt. She comes back every few days to make sure Dean's doing all right and give him an update. They're mostly empty conversations; not many demons are willing to just hand information over to Ruby now that she's known in those circles for killing one of her own in favor of a human hunter. The information she does get, through whatever means she gets it, doesn't hold much water, either. Every demon contradicts another demon until the Colt's been everywhere but fucking Timbuktu and in everyone's hands but the goddamn Pope.

Dean does what research he can on the gun, poring over Dad's journal for clues. What few there are, he and Ruby have already followed up on. They've reached a dead-end and while Meg's out of the picture, Azazel and his other cronies aren't. Sooner or later the Colt's going to crop up again and Dean's getting increasingly worried that he and Ruby will be a step behind when it does.

"Dad really didn't mention anything to you?" Dean asks.

It's one of the lazier days at Bobby's place. Dean's been laid up for almost three weeks now and while he feels a whole lot better - bruises all faded and ribs sore as hell but nothing to write home about - he's starting to get restless. It's weird to have to slow down so significantly after going practically non-stop for years. It makes him wish if he had to be stalled out somewhere it could be Lawrence. Not that he doesn't love Bobby's place, but Dean gets to see him all the time. He can't even remember the last time he stopped in Kansas longer than it took to fill the Impala's tank and get back on the road again.

"Nope," Bobby says.

He's got a huge book open in his lap that looks like it was written entirely in Latin. Dean knows enough of that particular dead language to get by but most of it's just a lot of gibberish. Bobby, on the other hand, has no problem reading any of it. In fact, he has to be the world's most well-read man. There are books in at least a dozen different languages gathering dust in the living room alone, not to mention the stacks he's got propping up all the other walls in the house. As far as Dean can tell, Bobby knows exactly what's in each and every one of them. Dean catches himself thinking all the time that Bobby has to have broken some kind of World Record here somewhere.

"Keep in mind," Bobby adds, "your dad was more secretive than usual before he fell off the grid. I mean, vanishing for months at a time without a word to anybody. Following mysterious leads to God only knows where. I don't even know who the last person to see him alive _was_ , let alone what John might've had to say to 'em."

Dean huffs out a sigh and goes back to reading through Dad's journal for the millionth time. He and Ruby had deciphered a lot of it about three months ago, tracking down coordinates that led to little more than bad hauntings or dangerous, unsolved cases. There are notes on different monsters and spirits inside, along with a few pages on demons and the Colt rumored to be able to kill them. They've been tracking all of the names related to the Colt that Dad saw significant enough to write down with no luck, just a whole lot of dead bodies and a missing gun. It's out there somewhere, Dean just can't figure out _where_. And if his dad did find it, where the hell did he stash it?

The shrill ring of one of Bobby's many phones cuts through the quiet and Bobby pushes himself out of his chair to answer it. It's one of the things Dean's gotten used to since arriving here; if Bobby's not answering one of the many phones meant to legitimize another hunter's cover story, someone else is calling to find out what the deal is with the monster he's hunting. The calls can get a little heated sometimes, not that it comes as any real surprise. Dean can imagine that Bobby's not easy for a lot of people to get along with and from what he's gathered, the older hunter has a colorful, and generally ugly, past - especially where his time with other hunters is concerned.

Bobby answers with his customary, "Yeah," but his tone changes quickly after that.

"Ah, hell, Ellen, I thought I told you not to get mixed up in any of that," he says.

Dean looks up at the tight, almost anxious quality to Bobby's voice and is surprised to find Bobby staring right back at him. The man looks away quickly, but all of Dean's instincts are screaming that this is somehow related to him.

"I can't tell you any more about it than you already know," Bobby goes on after a pause. "But if you got your hands on the damn thing-"

There's a longer silence this time and Bobby's whole body lifts and deflates with his heavy sigh. "Yeah," he says. "Yeah, I'll keep my ears open. You watch your back."

And then he hangs up and sits back down like the whole thing didn't happen. His eyes won't stay on Dean for more than a couple of seconds at a time, though, and when Dean asks who it was Bobby gives a shake of his head and clams right the hell up. The rest of the afternoon passes in a tense kind of quiet. Whatever Bobby's hiding, Dean's pretty sure it's something he's got a right to hear about. He's still trying to figure out how to get Bobby to talk when Ruby comes back.

She looks the same as always, blonde hair tucked behind her ears and body language loose and battle ready. It never stops creeping him out that she never looks like she's tangled with anything scarier than a curling iron no matter how many times she gets the shit kicked out of her on a case or has a run-in with a demon who wouldn't mind cashing in on the high price on her head. Every time she turns up at Bobby's again, Dean wishes he could tell just from looking what she's been up to but it's impossible. She could have been turned practically inside out over breakfast and there'd be no sign of it now.

As it is, she's been gone for almost four days and while she has on the same resigned look that tells Dean there are no new leads to be had, she also seems satisfied with herself in a way that means there are a couple of demons out there that tried to fuck with her and got themselves good and dead for their efforts.

"What's for dinner?" she asks.

The grin she shoots Bobby is cheeky and well-aware of the effect she has on him. Bobby narrows his eyes at her but doesn't answer. For the most part he likes to pretend she doesn't exist and it just works out better for everyone that way. Ruby, though, isn't quite content with the silent treatment and tends to do her best to get him to . . . open up to her.

"Find anything?" Dean cuts in before she can get under Bobby's skin and earn a face full of holy water.

Her mouth twists in frustration. "Nothing," she says. "But the demons still haven't tracked it down and Azazel's getting sloppy."

It's not good enough, but it's something at least. If Azazel starts screwing up, that makes him easier to keep an eye on. It also means he's got as much of a clue as to where the Colt might be as Dean and Ruby. The more even their footing, the better in Dean's opinion.

Bobby clears his throat off to the side and glares at them both when their gazes swing to him. That unhappy, constipated look on his face never bodes well and Dean feels instantly nervous. The feeling subsides, somewhat, when Bobby speaks.

"I may have a lead for you two idjits," he says.

Dean raises his eyebrows. "What, and you were just holding onto this information and saving it for a rainy day?"

Bobby rolls his eyes. "Don't get smart with me, boy. I was trying to decide if it'd be worth it to tell you. I figure at this point it can't _hurt_."

They wait impatiently for Bobby to go on. He works his jaw for a good long while, long enough for Dean to want to scream at him, and then he says, "I got a call earlier from an old acquaintance of mine. Ellen Harvelle. She says a buncha folks have wandered into her bar askin' questions about the Colt lately. I don't know that anybody knows anything useful, but if word's gotten out then someone has to know _something_."

Dean shares a look with Ruby and then turns back to Bobby. "Where do we find her?"

"The Roadhouse. You two are gonna wanna be careful there. She caters to the kind of clientele that won't take kindly to a demon breakin' bread in their midst."

Ruby just grins at that. "Ye of little faith," she says. "Trust me. They'll have no idea."

Bobby doesn't look convinced but Dean's seen Ruby in action enough times to know she does a better job of being human than some actual ones they've run into. They'll be fine. And in the meantime, knowing they have a destination that could give them their first solid lead in months feels real good. Dean even offers to help cook dinner with a smile on his face and laughs when Bobby tells him he'd rather ride bitch with Ruby for the next year than have to eat what Dean considers home cooking.  



	14. Act Two - Chapter Twelve

 

It feels like they haven't seen the sun for days in Lawrence. Clouds crept in almost a week ago and have lingered, thick and heavy, ever since. There's been no real rain, other than a few misting showers, and it's too warm for snow, will be for at least another month yet. For some reason it's just _gloomy_ and Jimmy hates it. The horrible weather serves as a constant reminder of Jimmy's own mind - an increasingly dark and unfamiliar place. At least when the sun's out it's easier to pretend that everything's normal.

Things haven't been normal for a while, though, and Jimmy's not sure how much more of it he can take. People have started to notice - his co-workers have picked up on his absent-mindedness and the way he sometimes forgets what's real and what's the remnant of one of his visceral dreams. Missouri's taken to dropping by on the weekends just to make sure Jimmy doesn't lock himself away for days at a time like he started doing a few months ago. He tries to reassure everyone that everything’s fine, it's nothing serious, but he can't even convince himself of that. He's tried for the better part of two years to write this whole mess off as a phase of some kind, but it's gotten worse and not better.

He's at a loss as to what to do and he's been increasingly upset about it. The weather hasn't helped and neither has the sudden wave of dreams about Dean.

The dreams themselves aren't out of the ordinary. When Jimmy isn't chasing after the elusive figure of one Sam Winchester while he's asleep, he's watching Dean face down monsters and demons. Occasionally Jimmy sees other things, images that are more abstract than concrete and yet remind him painfully of some place he once belonged. Mostly, though, it's the brothers Winchester. Missouri's the only one who knows about the things he sees in his sleep but she's assured him they can't be the visions he insists they are.

"I'd know if Sam Winchester was alive," she'd told him when Jimmy'd first tried to explain his theory to her.

Not that it was ever going to stick when all Jimmy had to go on at the time were some vague images of a powerful young man slaying monsters and a feeling that extended deeper than his gut that this wasn't just some impression of Sam, this was the _real_ Sam. Missouri's never been a skeptic, but like she assured Jimmy, if he had a single ounce of clairvoyant in him she'd have spotted it the day he was born. There's nothing, she insists.

As for Dean, Missouri's always maintained that it's Jimmy trying to compensate for their failed friendship and all of the questions he still has about why Dean left and where he is.

"You're piecing together the little bits you know and filling in all the other blanks," she'd explained. "I know it's hard, honey, but you've gotta think about letting that boy go."

That had been a year ago, when the dreams had become so violent and pervasive that Jimmy'd been unable to eat or sleep for weeks. He'd gone to Missouri asking if he was losing his mind or if he really was having visions of Dean's hunts. Her answers had been simple and to the point and Jimmy knew the logic behind them. He almost believed them for a while.

He knows better now. Whatever he sees, it's happened. Maybe not exactly like it plays out in his head - God, he _hopes_ not exactly like that - but it's real. And the visions have started edging their way into Jimmy's waking life. Short of drilling a hole into his brain, Jimmy doesn't think there's any getting rid of them and he hates it. He hates every second of it.

On the eight day of cloud cover and chilly temperatures, Jimmy wakes up from a blank vision with a gnawing sense of something being very, _very_ wrong in his gut. He gets ready for class despite the heavy pressure building behind his eyes, washing down two painkillers for breakfast with a swig of tepid water, the actions something of a routine by now. What's not routine is the way he leaves his apartment knowing that something bad is going to happen. He doesn't know to who, although his heart throbs and aches like _it_ knows exactly who's in trouble, he just knows this goes beyond the common trouble a hunter will find himself in.

Jimmy jumps at shadows all day, peering into people's faces like he expects to see something other than a pair of wary, human eyes staring back at him. He sits in the back of every class and avoids getting called on or noticed by anyone and by the end of the day his back hurts from his shoulders to the base of his spine from being so tense. He doesn't relax when he leaves his last class and heads to work, especially not when the buzzing starts. It's familiar in a vague kind of way - higher pitched than the static of a radio but more melodic than white noise. The sound comes from inside his own head, he's sure, but he can't help but look around for the source of it periodically. His coworkers don't seem to notice; only his manager Alice and a chipper young woman named Wendy are working with him and they've both learned to let Jimmy come to them if it's what he wants.

The hours crawl by with that buzzing noise getting louder and louder until he has to strain to hear customers who wander by and ask him questions. He locks himself in the back room during his break and crouches in a corner with his hands over his ears, but it's not like that was ever going to help. When he goes to the bathroom before his break's up he gets a good look at his face in the mirror - his skin is pallid and there are dark circles under his eyes. His hair's more of a crow's nest than usual. He looks like he used to when he was sick all the time, hardly able to sleep through the night or keep weight on. He almost wishes that were the reason for all of this. At least that kind of illness he was used to. He knew how to deal with it.

Alice gives him a long look when he wanders back out into the bookstore but he avoids eye-contact and tells her he's fine when she asks if he wants to go home. He's only got a few more hours left and it's a slow night; he needs the money more than he needs to go back to his apartment and disappear into his own head, especially when he never knows how long he'll be gone or what the world'll feel like when he gets back.

It's nearing the end of his shift when it happens. The buzzing recedes, like water tugged out before the tide rolls in. Jimmy's near the back, reshelving some books in the graphic novels section, and he stops still and tilts his head to listen to the silence. It's less of a relief than it should be; he goes back to his job just waiting for it to come back, holding his breath in anticipation of it.

It doesn't. Instead he hears a voice, clear as a bell but with the resonance of a clap of thunder: "Dean Winchester is in grave danger."

"What?" Jimmy says out loud, spinning in a circle to look for the source of the words.

There's no one there, just Wendy's disembodied voice calling to him from two shelves over, asking if he said something. Jimmy bites down hard on his bottom lip and squeezes his eyes shut. The buzz comes back but this time when he concentrates he recognizes more than just a fuzzy wall of sound. He can pick out words now - _Dean_ and _demon_ and _colt_ and _revenge_. None of them make sense on their own but Jimmy focuses even harder and his recurring dream from the last few nights rushes back to him:

_Dean's tied to a chair, immobile and bleeding, and there's a woman standing over his body. She looks normal - short, blonde hair, pretty eyes, and a smile that would be sweet if it weren't for all the malice seeping out of its corners - but she's not. Jimmy can see, now, the face behind the human mask. It's rotted and full of holes, the skin tattered and leathery. The eyes are yawning holes where something should be but instead there lies an absence. The teeth are filed to points, small and sharp and jutting out of broken lip and through jagged rips where its cheeks were once. It's difficult to tell but that face was human and whole once. Now it's bloodstained and corroded down to some twisted, writhing mass of hatred and fear and raw hunger burning through what remains of its former shell._

_For a moment Jimmy's list in a series of images as she takes her abnormally strong hands to Dean over and over and over again. She hurts him and Jimmy feels a familiar hot well of possessive and righteous anger well up and make the hair on his arms and the back of his neck lift. Dean isn't hers to hurt this way and Jimmy wants to drag her off of him and destroy her for daring to lay a finger on what doesn't belong to her._

_There's a jolt and a sick, orange-red flash and everything gets fuzzy. The demon's dead but that's not the important part, not this time. Jimmy's relished that moment before, happy to know that she died and Dean lived, but he has to go back. Back before she nearly killed Dean. Back before she was even really trying . . . and there it is._

_"Now tell me where John hid the Colt."_

Jimmy sucks in a sharp breath and it takes him a moment to realize he's on the floor. His shoulders and back hurt from where he must have fallen over and he's not sure how long he's been out until Wendy rounds the corner.

"Hey, Jimmy? You didn't say something did you?" And then she catches sight of him and says, "Oh, God, are you okay?"

_Dean Winchester is after the Colt so that he may kill the demon Azazel. Azazel is after Dean Winchester so that his Master may be made to rise again._

The nonsensical words rebound around Jimmy's skull, loud and pulsing with what feels like urgency. Wendy drops to her knees next to Jimmy and rests a small hand against his forehead but he barely registers the touch. He feels frozen over inside, scared and desperate.

"Jimmy?"

The world around him fades out until he's lost in his own head, trapped there like the visions and the voices have caught him up in a sticky web of their making. God, maybe he is going crazy. Jimmy thinks this has to be what it feels like; he's completely overwhelmed by something that doesn't exist outside of his own perception of it. The voices speak faster, now. _Roadhouse_ they say and _demons_ and _they're watching Dean closely, nowhere will be safe for him_. Jimmy shuts his eyes tight, digs the heels of his palms into them but it doesn't help. The amoeba flares of color behind his eyelids coagulate into shapes and then a distinct picture - Dean in a room, covered in blood, same as the dream he's been having over and over for weeks.

Jimmy isn't even aware of his own screaming and yelling until much later, when the hands of EMTs haul him into a sitting position and tell him he needs to calm down. He still can't stop. The voices are an incessant drone in Jimmy's ears and the memory of Dean's brush with death won't recede. The last thought Jimmy has before his vision blurs and he sinks into an uneasy, drugged sleep is that someone has to do something. Someone needs to save Dean.

  


  
The doctors call it a psychotic break, diagnose Jimmy with schizophrenia - emphasis on the paranoid, religious-based delusions - and toss him into a facility called Cedar Points. It's located on the outskirts of town, a half-dozen single-story brick buildings scattered across an expanse of unnaturally green lawn and surrounded by 24/7 security and heavy doors that lock from the outside. They think he's crazy and Jimmy can't begrudge them that. He is the one who came in here insisting that his best friend's being chased by a demon who wants to kill him, information Jimmy gathered from angels only he can hear. If he didn't know better, he'd think he was crazy, too. And maybe he is. It's been two days and after spending that much time haunting the same halls as some of the very sick people sharing his ward, he's half-convinced maybe he really does belong here. There's nothing to separate him from them, after all. They believe their own voices are as real as his, that their own fears are as legitimate.  
  
There are a lot of meetings where Jimmy's encouraged to talk about things. He isn't sure what they want to hear and he's not all that interested in explaining that the angels have started talking non-stop about how important Dean is to them as the Righteous Man. Jimmy doesn't even know what that _means_ ; the angels don't exactly monologue long enough to fill in all the gaps for Jimmy. They probably don't even know he can hear them. Mostly they talk in circles - long, endless loops of conversation that start and end with Dean being in danger. They're useless.  
  
The group meetings are easiest to deal with because Jimmy can sink into the background and listen to the others. It makes him uncomfortable to hear their stories, like he's intruding on something private that doesn't belong to him, but at least he can get away with saying as little as possible. The one-on-one meetings are worse.  
  
Jimmy meets with a Dr. Palmer who stares at him with practiced sympathy and asks what the angels are saying today from his seat in the corner of Jimmy's room. Sunlight pours in through the window set high up on the wall and reveals the lines on Dr. Palmer's face, bracketing his mouth and furrowing his brow even when he's doing his level best to look calm and inviting. He carries a heavy notebook with him and taps the pen against the wire rings curled through the binding. Jimmy watches the movement for a moment and then shrugs.  
  
"Not much," he answers honestly.  
  
They don't talk all the time. Or they _do_ , but Jimmy can't always hear them. Sometimes the voices fade into a background noise that's easy to ignore and Jimmy doesn't bother trying to pick his way through their stilted, archaic talk when that happens. It's when the voices grow agitated and increase in volume that he tunes in, worried that at any moment one of them will say that Dean's dead. That particular fear has taken up residence in Jimmy's body, turning his spine into a ladder of painful tension and making it almost impossible to eat anything and keep it down for long. Crazy or not, Jimmy knows that these voices have made him sick. If he's being honest, he hasn't been _well_ for a while, not since the dreams first started. This is just all of that coming to a head, he thinks.  
  
Dr. Palmer hums quietly and jots something down on his pad of paper.  
  
"And last night?"  
  
Jimmy shudders and thinks back. Last night the angels had been particularly upset, though he hadn't understood exactly _why_. There had been quieter murmurs in his ear as he tried to fall asleep, like someone was trying to keep a secret. The words had been even more abstract and non-linear than usual; the angels hadn't used any names, just symbols and metaphors that didn't make much sense. Jimmy had only been able to get the gist of what was being said, but it left him uneasy and kept him half-awake all night.  
  
"Some of the angels know something," Jimmy says, frowning in concentration. "Something they don't want the others to know. It's not good."  
  
"Why isn't it good?" Dr. Palmer asks.  
  
Dr. Palmer's tone is even but there's something beneath it that always seems to coax more out of Jimmy than he's really willing to share. He thinks harder but it's a puzzle he's been trying to figure out all day and he's no closer to getting it to make any sense.  
  
"I don't know," Jimmy finally answers. "I think it involves the demons but I don't know what."  
  
The meeting lasts for another twenty minutes, during which time Dr. Palmer asks about the nature of Jimmy's relationship with Dean. It's another familiar question but Jimmy's better at deflecting this one. Part of it is because he doesn't _know_ what the "nature of their relationship" is anymore. The only contact they've had in two years was a message left on Jimmy's answering machine nearly a month ago. Beyond that, they haven't spoken since Dean effectively told Jimmy to fuck off right before disappearing himself. In all that time, Jimmy's done his best to avoid thinking about that and what it meant because he's always been afraid that doing so would force him to make a painful decision. And yeah, he's been angry and he's _let_ himself feel that anger, but he's never moved beyond that.  
  
Two years later, he's still not over Dean. He knows it's pathetic but he can't help himself. Even now he's more worried about Dean than he is about himself which should probably tell Dr. Palmer all he needs to know. But he just keeps asking and, ultimately, it's none of his damn business. Jimmy's not going to get caught up in some pseudo-therapy designed to cure something inside of him that isn't actually sick. It works the same way when Dr. Palmer brings up Jimmy's childhood, his sickness, his parents, his years as a teen, his virginity, his faith, whatever buzz words appear on the list of incendiary and supposedly relevant topics.  
  
Eventually their time is up and Jimmy's released back into the sedate fray. He shuffles out into the hallway and stops short when he catches sight of a familiar face. Dr. Palmer bumps into Jimmy and utters an apology that sounds terse and annoyed, the first crack in his veneer, but Jimmy doesn't even notice.  
  
"Aunt Missouri," he breathes before taking four long strides forward and into her waiting arms.  
  
"Oh, _honey_ ," she murmurs.  
  
She holds him tight and he tucks his face into her shoulder and breathes in a familiar smell of cinnamon and rose water. A little bit of the tension seeps from his skin and falls away, landing somewhere on the floor along with any doubts that were trying to take root.  
  
"You're okay," she says, her voice hushed and just for him.  
  
And he is. He knows it.  
  
  


  
  
One of the nurses unlocks the tiny rec room to give Missouri and Jimmy a place to meet privately. Jimmy hates this room because of the thick, tart smell of sickness that mingles with something chalky and chemical in the air. The scent of the room gives him a headache. That's not to mention all the cheerful posters on the wall meant to help patients identify moods or, worse, those painted by volunteers that are meant to inspire them to work hard toward getting better. Or at least getting to the point of functioning in society.  
  
They come in here twice a day to do things like paint pictures and play board games. Jimmy usually spends the entire time glaring at the clock on the wall, willing time to pass by quicker just like he used to do in high school.  
  
It's easier to stomach the smell and the generally uncomfortable aura of the room with Missouri, although she wrinkles her nose when she sits down and mutters about bad energy. Jimmy takes the seat across from her and says, "I'm not crazy."  
  
Missouri's smile is warm and sincere. "You aren't telling me anything I don't already know."  
  
Jimmy tries to return her smile but he knows it probably comes out looking crooked and weak. "You're the only one."  
  
" _We're_ the only ones," she corrects. "Don't you go letting them tell you you're something you're not, Jimmy Novak. I don't care how many degrees these doctors have hanging on their office walls, they don't know a damn thing about what's going on here."  
  
It takes a second for the words to register and when they do, Jimmy sits up straight and leans forward over the table. "Do you know what this is? What's happening to me, I mean?"  
  
Missouri's quiet for a moment, her eyes intent on Jimmy's face. "You started hearing the angels yesterday," she says. "But this recurring dream of yours? You've been having it for three weeks?"  
  
It's unnerving to know Missouri's inside of his head even though he's seen her abilities at work on countless others. He and Dean used to get a kick out of eavesdropping in on some of her clients; they couldn't get away with it, obviously, but it was worth an extra chore or two. She's never done this with him before, though. Missouri's policy has always been to stay out of the heads of her loved ones as much as she can. She'd had to sit both Jimmy and Dean down to explain to them that she couldn't just turn it off, but she'd never pry into their business without their permission. It was, she'd told Jimmy later, the same promise she'd made his parents when they became friends.  
  
From what she's told him, Jimmy knows it's hard for a psychic to relate to others. Missouri doesn't have many close friends; too many people are scared of her. For the first time, Jimmy understands where some of that fear stems from.  
  
But Missouri's eyes are full of nothing but love and care and Jimmy knows that she wouldn't be doing this if she didn't mean to help him. So he nods in answer to her question and frowns when her face falls and she shakes her head slowly.  
  
"I'm so sorry," she says.  
  
Jimmy's stomach drops. "Why? What's wrong?"  
  
"No, no," she says shaking her head. "I mean I'm _sorry_. You came to me months ago and I didn't take this as seriously as I should have. But I didn't see anything wrong with you. I really did think it was just your mind working through that whole mess with Dean."  
  
Blaming Missouri hasn't even crossed Jimmy's mind. He hadn't asked Missouri for a reading then when maybe he should have, and it's not like she would have sensed anything. It was just a bunch of dreams. Visions. The first imprints of whatever it is that allows Jimmy to listen in on conversations between angels. And if there's really nothing wrong with his brain then she couldn't have known.  
  
"But you're here now," Jimmy says.  
  
"I am. And I want to see if I can't help you figure out what this is. Only if you want, though. I won't go poking around if you'd rather I didn't."  
  
There's nothing for Jimmy to hide. It's not like Missouri doesn't already know about him and Dean or about how Jimmy still feels about him. His thoughts must have been loud enough for years now that there would have been no way for her to ignore them. He hesitates for a moment because he's scared of what the truth might be. Whatever's inside of him, whatever she might find, it has to be something beyond his current ability to comprehend. If he's not a psychic like Missouri is then he has no idea _what_ he could be. The unknown is terrifying, but there's also some niggling feeling at the back of Jimmy's mind that tells him he has to do this. There's something he's supposed to know, something he's been trying to remember, and once he does he'll have all the answers he needs.  
  
But what if the answers are awful? What if they only make things worse?  
  
"That's a risk we all have to take at some point in our lives, Jimmy," Missouri tells him.  
  
He meets her eyes and that familiar, steady gaze is enough to calm his unsettled nerves.  
  
"Okay," he says. "What do I do?"  
  
"Just give me your hand," she says.  
  
Her arms extend across the table, her palms open and waiting. Jimmy swallows and then slips his hand into one of hers. The other closes around it, cupping his hand fully between both of hers. Her hold is strong and warm, the pads of her fingers smooth against the bones of his wrist. She sweeps her thumb over his knuckles and gives him a reassuring smile before her eyes slide shut. A hush falls over the room, deeper than the quiet from before. There's reverence held within it and something hums just under Jimmy's skin, answering the magnetic pull of Missouri's power.  
  
"Jimmy, honey," Missouri says, her voice low and smooth, "I need you to close your eyes for me. Tell me what you see."  
  
Jimmy wrinkles his brow but shuts his eyes and sucks in a sharp breath at the explosion of light behind his eyelids. It's pure white, so bright Jimmy can practically feel its warmth wash across his face and rush through his body, collecting in his fingertips and toes, the hollow in his chest Dean left behind, the secret spaces of his mind that have always poked and prodded at him, urging him to recall that something important he forgot a long time ago.  
  
"What . . . what is it?" Jimmy asks.  
  
"It's you," Missouri says.  
  
There's something in her voice that feels out of place, something too full of shock and awe for what Jimmy thinks is just some weird misfiring of his brainwaves. Missouri's chuckle is rich and sweet as honey and makes the light dance in response.  
  
"Look harder," she says.  
  
That doesn't seem possible; the light is so bright it would be impossible to actually _see_ anything, and that's forgetting the part where Jimmy's eyes are closed leaving him nothing to look at in the first place. But he concentrates, not so much on what's painted across his eyelids but on what it _feels_ like. When he reaches out with his mind to touch it, he shudders and then feels like he's being pulled forward from the inside. There's nothing physical about it; he can't even feel his body anymore. It's everything else that rushes toward the light like it's been grabbed by a magnet - that abstract core of feeling and emotion called a "heart", the amorphous sense of being and identity called a "soul". There's a stronger pull at the back of his mind and it's like he can _see_ his memories whizzing past him to dive into the light, every single one. Dean's face flashes by hundreds of times along with Missouri and her house, Jimmy's childhood home, his parents, the Impala, thousands of faces he's forgotten, places he hasn't been more than once, all of it. Jimmy tries to grab hold of them, wants to keep them right where they are, but it's impossible.  
  
The light vibrates and turns a dozen different shades as its pelted with the entirety of Jimmy's life, settling for a brief moment on a dusky blue-green, before it flares bright again. There's one more memory sailing toward it and Jimmy watches himself blink his eyes open from a hospital bed while his mother dozes in the seat next to him. His lips form a question and she sits up straight with wide eyes and starts crying and yelling and hugging him. Jimmy can feel the tightness of that embrace if he concentrates hard enough and he misses his mom so fiercely in that moment that he forgets to try and hang on to the memory. It follows the rest of them and the light glows rosy and soft before it dims completely and Jimmy's left in the dark.  
  
He tries to open his eyes but he can't; he's trapped inside his own mind, body numb and lost to him. It takes a moment for him to realize the wheezy, rattling gusts of wind he hears are his own panicked breaths.  
  
"Shhhh. You're safe, I promise. Now tell me what you see."  
  
Missouri's voice is a golden thread in the dark and he holds onto it, forcing himself to breath slow and even and look around. It's pitch black and Jimmy would frown if he could. There should be more memories than the ones he just saw. Where are the other thirteen years? All of the sickness, the months he spent in a coma? There's nothing and the fear that should accompany that realization isn't there. Instead Jimmy feels a gentle nudge, like there's something waiting for him and all he has to do is reach out and take it. He hesitates for a moment, but there's no going back and there's no stopping now. Jimmy's pretty sure he could ask and Missouri would pull him back from wherever he is, but that would, he knows, be a terrible idea.  
  
So he surges forward instead. The missing memories are there, held inside a ball that emits a sapphire glow. Next to them is another orb that swirls with more colors than Jimmy's ever seen in his life, some of which he's sure have no name. He reaches out to the blue one first and swirl of familiar images wind their way around him, most of them leaving behind a sad and lonely feeling. The last is a thin and reedy looking wisp of memory - the slow dissipation of all five senses, and then all thought, all will, all breath. A quiet, inevitable death.  
  
"I died," Jimmy whispers, the words echoing inside and outside of himself.  
  
"When you were just a boy," Missouri confirms.  
  
"Then what-"  
  
"Keep going."  
  
This time Jimmy doesn't hesitate to reach out to that other collection of memories. These don't ease their way up to Jimmy; they rush him in a deluge of images and impressions, a rapid flux of knowledge. It should be too much to absorb but it sinks into Jimmy, each piece finding an empty space to slot itself into. Most of it moves too quickly for him to catch even a glimpse of but when it's in place he feels a tiny throb of reassurance to accompany this inundation of . . . whatever this all is.  
  
"There's too much," Jimmy says.  
  
"That's all right. Just don't fight it."  
  
But it won't fit, he thinks. There's no way all of this can find space inside of one human body, one finite little mind.  
  
"It will," Missouri says.  
  
"How?"  
  
"You _know_ how."  
  
 _I don't_ , Jimmy thinks desperately. _I can't_.  
  
There's no answer and for one heart-stopping second he thinks maybe he's really lost it. It's dark again and he can't feel or see Missouri anymore; he's all alone. He can feel his heart beating in his chest, fast and frantic, and then something washes over him, offering the comfort of a kiss on his forehead or a hand clasping his during a storm. It's gentle and full of a love that burns hot and pure and feels unlike anything Jimmy's ever felt before. Except . . . he has felt it. He knows this feeling.  
  
The light comes up slow as a sunrise, pure white tinged with pinks and golds and oranges, and he remembers a million mornings just like this, including that last one before he gave up eternity for _this_.  
  
" _Oh_ ," he breathes.  
  
He blinks his eyes open and lets the table hold him up while feeling returns to his hands and feet. Missouri stares at him with a soft smile and tears in her eyes.  
  
"What's your name, honey?" she asks.  
  
There's not a simple answer and he screws up his face in frustration when he tries to figure out a way to explain.  
  
"I'm Castiel," he says. "An angel of the Lord."  
  
"Yes," Missouri says.  
  
He frowns and cocks his head at her. "But I'm Jimmy, too."  
  
"Well," Missouri says, wiping her eyes and huffing out a laugh. "I don't know how things work where you come from, but I don't see any reason why you can't be both."  
  
  


  
This, Castiel tells himself as he dozes off later that night, is going to take some getting used to. He's been tucked away inside of Jimmy for long enough that the human experience is nothing new to him. None of that could have prepared him for the integration of both sides of himself, though. He's occupied a handful of vessels in his time, each one carefully sought out and treated with a certain amount of reverence and respect. The vessel him or herself always receded in the wake of the angel's Grace, an entirely seperate entity that didn't so much coexist with Castiel as it piggybacked on his corporeal existence. Eventually Castiel would leave the vessel to go back to his or her life and that would be that. He didn't absorb any of their character traits, didn't feel any of their emotions or experience a single fraction of their humanity.  
  
He knew in those scant seconds he had to make a decision that this would be different. Having his Grace ripped out only to be drawn to the empty body of a boy whose mind had already developed, who had a personality all his own, wasn't going to be like obtaining a regular vessel. Still, Castiel isn't prepared for just _how_ different it is. It had been one thing to feel and experience things as Jimmy. It's another thing entirely to feel those same things now that he's Castiel again and it boggles his millenia-old mind that he is and always will be both, now.  
  
It's not often that an angel is faced with an existence he can't quite make sense of. Castiel thinks that perhaps if his brothers and sisters could all taste something like this, even for a moment, they would be transformed for the better. Only their Father knows everything, after all, and they're still beholden to him. It's a disgrace that so many of them had already forgotten that in the time before Castiel fell. He hates to think of how many more have gone the same way in the time that he's been gone.  
  
The Host is quiet as Castiel drifts off to sleep but he keeps himself carefully attuned to them, waiting for any word on Dean or Azazel. They're tight-lipped, though, almost as if they know someone's been listening in. Even almost entirely Grace-less, it's possible someone's been keeping tabs on Castiel. What he did wasn't only treason against Heaven, it was a crime against fate itself. As far as he knows, Castiel's still the only angel to have flown in the face of orders so flagrantly. He's also the only one who knows the extent of the sacrifice he made.  
  
Castiel knows how his brethren work, how they _think_. They won't want anyone listening in on their plans and they'll be looking for revenge. But first they'll need to know everything Castiel knows.  
  
It's the middle of the night when he feels the first alert go up in his mind. It's a dull awareness at first that coaxes him out of a shallow sleep. He blinks his eyes open and stares into the darkness of the room. His companion, an older patient with a whole host of psychoses to his name, sleeps in the bed across the room, aided by the pills the nurses had on hand for all of them. Castiel had refused the medication they'd offered him, same as he had the previous night when Jimmy had been scared but sure of his sanity. There's no question now that he doesn't need the medicine and they can't force it on him - Cedar Points policy.  
  
The sense of _wrong_ sharpens to a point and there's a rush of angry noise in his ears. The Host is riled, screaming in six different directions about God only knows what. It's hard to siphon individual words from the din, but Castiel manages to find out two things.  
  
The angels and demons know where he is and Azazel's set a trap for Dean.  
  
It's difficult to determine, particularly given how fast angels and demons travel, but Castiel knows he doesn't have much time either way. All he has left in him is a tiny thread of Grace - the wisps left behind when Michael tore out the rest - and most of that was used up healing Jimmy's body. The rest is negligible, more useless than the power of an average, human psychic. Even with everything Dean taught him, Castiel's no match for anything that might come after him in this state. He sits up slowly and glances around the room. The window that overlooks the grounds is just a pane of plexiglass set in the wall; there's no way to unlock it and escape that way. Castiel knows there are people working the graveyard shift whose job is to make sure someone like him doesn't just waltz out of the building. But he can't stick around, that much he knows.  
  
The floor is chilled beneath Castiel's bare feet when he swings his legs over the bed and stands up. His eyes have adjusted to the dark, though, and he picks his way to the door with careful and quiet steps. His roommate snores on as he slips out into the hall. It's silent and everything about the place feels off. Castiel shudders and thinks this is the last place he'd want to find himself cornered. He makes his way through the maze-like halls, keeping his ears pricked for the sound of anyone making the rounds. There's a close call when one of the night nurses rounds the corner unexpectedly, but Castiel ducks into a nearby room and winces when its occupants start to squirm around in their beds. He stays by the door and holds his breath, exhaling in relief when the two patients resettle and drop back into a deep and presumably drugged sleep.  
  
He counts to one-hundred and then ducks back out into the hall, all but sprinting those last few feet to the common room. He has to keep low when he slips inside even though he can't see anyone at the desk across the hall; better to be safe than sorry. The common room is large and airy; the back wall is all windows and double-doors leading to a patio that spills out onto the lawn. They lock it at night but that won't be a problem so long as Castiel can find something to pick it with. One of the girls is constantly raining hairpins all over the floor when she turns on the radio to dance in the little corner of the room she's claimed for herself. They do a decent job of cleaning up this place, but Castiel finds a couple of them gathering dust up along the edge of the wall and plucks them up.  
  
The lock on the door doesn't look too complicated. Castiel isn't too experienced with this, but it's something he'd made Dean teach him after the incident with the handcuffs. He feels a conflicting surge of emotions at the thought - residual anger and hurt, newfound determination, and a love that's so familiar he can't remember a time it didn't exist. Castiel shakes his head to clear his thoughts and sets himself to the task of breaking out, keeping half of his attention on the rest of the building and the other half on the lock itself. It takes him three tries to get it, but when the gears pop into place with a click he can't help but grin and utter a silent thanks to Dean, wherever he is, for showing him how to do this.  
  
He eases the door shut behind him and then makes a run for it, sticking to the shadows as much as possible. No one notices he's gone, which is a relief, and hopefully they won't until it's too late. In the meantime, escaping the grounds only puts him on a road that leads to the outskirts of the city and he isn't sure where he should go next. He has to find Dean before Azazel does, but there's no way he can do that in his current state. His car's still at the bookstore, his clothes are at his apartment, and those are probably the first two places anyone looking for him will go after they fail to find him here.  
  
Chances are he'll never beat them there on foot, but he has to try. He sets off down the road at a quick pace, letting the urgency thrumming in his veins spur him on.  
  
It's a mild night but Castiel is barefoot and the standard issue patient blues from Cedar Points are paper-thin, not to mention conspicuous. Castiel makes it what might be a couple of miles before he realizes this just isn't going to work. He could probably call Missouri if he can find a payphone and scrounge up change from somewhere, but he's worried that this close to the center someone will recognize him and have him sent right back. Castiel is working with a very limited window of time, here, and he can't afford any setbacks.  
  
The road he's been walking on for the past two hours is deserted due to the time of night so the hum of awareness Castiel feels rumble up through his feet isn't from a car. It takes him a moment to recognize that the vibrations he feels rattling his teeth aren't from any tangible source, or at least not one that's tangible on this particular plane. He feels a familiar thread of thought tease through his brain but it moves too fast for him to latch onto; it's not quite a voice but Castiel recognizes it as an angel nonetheless. There's no hiding from his kin and he knows it; diving off of the road into a thin copse of trees would be useless, but the fear that grips him tight makes him want to try. He takes two steps and readies himself to dive into a roadside ditch when the presence lingering on the edge of his awareness expands with a rush powerful enough to flatten the surrounding grass to the ground and make the trees sway so hard their trunks creak.  
  
The sound of wings beating at the air is both ominous and familiar and Castiel turns with a sense of dread sickening his stomach.  
  
"Well, well, well," says the archangel standing a few feet away. "Would you just look at what the cat dragged in?"  



	15. Act Two - Chapter Thirteen

 

It's a short drive to meet the mysterious Ellen Harvelle, a woman Bobby didn't have much to say about beyond, "She could take you in a fair fight so you'd better watch your mouth."

"Don't I always?" Dean had replied, which earned a glare from Bobby and an inelegant snort from Ruby.

It's still daylight out when they pull into the parking lot outside of a building that really doesn't look like much. Dean thinks that a couple of years ago a place like this would've made him feel out of place after all that time as a domesticated Winchester. Nowadays, the more run-down the better. Even if it does usually mean Ruby's going to do that creepy bait-and-switch thing she likes - bait the guys slobbering all over her rack and then switch from sweet to badass in less time than it takes most of them to realize they've lost the feeling in their fingers and the cash in their wallets. Whatever, it's not that much worse than hustlin' pool and Ruby doesn't even have to _try_. It's not like girls who look like her are falling through the doorways of dive bars all that often; when they do, hard-up assholes pounce on it like manna from Heaven.

From what Bobby's said, though, this place won't be like that. Oh, it's no five-star establishment but a lot of hunters apparently come through here. Ruby has no problem seducing the hell out of every Tom, Dick, or Harry who looks like an easy target and she's even fucked a few of them, but she's not dumb enough to think she can get away with pulling that shit on a hunter and she knows it. Despite her usual cockiness, she's uncharacteristically quiet as they make their way inside.

The air is thick with the smell of gun oil, cigarette smoke, and dark liquor. Dean squints as his eyes try to adjust to the dim light and Ruby takes a deep breath before slanting a smirk at him.

"Give me a decent plate of fries and I think I might be in love with this place," she says.

He snorts out a laugh and gets a quick lay of the land. The tables are all empty and there's no one behind the bar. Business is probably pretty slow for places like this until the sun goes down, but Dean's not sure it's normal for them to leave their front doors open for anyone to walk in and out of.

"Hello!" Ruby yells. "Anybody home?"

They wait expectantly for somone to wander out and investigate but there's no response.

"Guess not," Dean says.

Ruby smirks and heads straight for the bar. Dean watches as she vaults over it and starts perusing the available alcohol. Sometimes it freaks him out the kinds of human things she enjoys - French fries, tequila, and possibly porn (he's never caught her with it, but he has his suspicions). Most of the other demons they've come across haven't had nearly as much affection for that kind of stuff; they've mostly been concerned with wreaking as much havoc as possible and making sure the resultant death toll is nice and high. Ruby's a sadistic bitch in her own way, sure, but she's practically a pussycat compared to the others.

Case in point, she locates an aged bottle and hoists it over her head like a trophy.

"Fuck yeah, Dean-o," she says. "Tonight we drink like corpulent, alcoholic kings."

"Don't call me that," Dean says at the same time someone bursts through a swinging side door with a rifle and says, "I'd put that down if I were you."

Ruby raises her eyebrows but holds her arms up in a lazy sort of don't-shoot stance. Dean would glare at her if he weren't too busy eyeing the barrel of the gun when it swings his way. The woman holding it is pretty in that, "I will fuck you up where you stand" way, all sharp and ragged around the edges. Her dark hair falls across shoulders that look strong and capable and the tight pinch of her frown and glare exaggerate the lines developing on her face. The hold she has on that gun is steady and there's something about her that tells Dean she wouldn't hesitate to fire a warning shot straight into his gut if she sensed he was a threat. The fact that she hasn't fired yet is only vaguely heartening and Dean really doesn't want to press his luck.

His companion, of course, has no such qualms.

"I don't see your name on it," she says.

Dean rolls his eyes and considers, not for the first time, how difficult it can be to domesticate a demon.

"You see the name outside?" the woman asks. "Well, that's me. And that makes that bottle of whiskey you're holding mine."

So _this_ is Ellen Harvelle. It fuckin' figures that this is the first impression they'll make on the person they came here to see. Dean catches Ruby's eye and she huffs out a sigh and then sets the bottle down on the bar.

"Sorry," Ruby says in a flat voice.

"I'm sure. Now you wanna tell me just who the hell you are?"

Dean speaks up before Ruby can be a smartass and get them shot. "That's Ruby. I'm Dean."

That gets Ellen to lower the gun and she stares at Dean for a long moment. "Winchester?" she finally asks.

He nods once and she shakes her head in disbelief. "You're just about the last person I ever expected to walk through my door," she says. "The way your dad always talks about you, I figured you'd be off in some big city going to college and making an honest man out of yourself."

There's something in the words, bitter and wistful at once, that makes a bolt of guilt rock Dean down to his toes. The only promise he ever made to his dad was that he'd behave himself, that he'd stick around and get a high school education at least. That doesn't mean Dean doesn't know what Dad _wanted_ for him and this isn't it. Which is all fine and dandy, but Dean shoves the guilt away by reminding himself he wouldn't exactly _be_ here if his dad hadn't up and disappeared and then gone and got himself killed by the thing he'd spent so much of his life hunting.

"Yeah, well, things change," Dean says, trying to keep his own bitterness at bay.

"They do at that," Ellen says before striding forward and holding out her hand. "I'm Ellen."

"I know," Dean says, giving her hand a firm shake and taking note of the strength in her callused grip. "Bobby sent me."

Ellen's eyebrows inch up and she throws a glance in Ruby's direction. "This about the Colt?"

Ruby leans her elbows on the bar and watches them with interest. To her credit, Ellen doesn't seem all that phased by it and keeps her eyes on Dean's face waiting for his answer.

"Yeah," Dean says. "We've been looking for it and he said you might be able to help us."

An unreadable expression crosses Ellen's face and then she schools her features into something carefully blank; Dean doesn't miss the way her fingers tighten on her shotgun, though, or the sudden tension in her body.

"Why not send John?" she asks.

Dean looks away and forces the words out. "He died over a year ago."

It still feels so surreal to him; this is only the second time he's said the words out loud to anyone other than himself and it's nothing like having to mutter them over the phone to an empathetic but distant Missouri. They taste godawful on his tongue and he can't believe how bad it hurts to admit it out loud even now.

Ellen breathes out long and slow and then says, "God, I am so sorry."

Dean shrugs and blinks until his eyes don't feel dry and prickly anymore. Then he looks up at her and offers a crooked smile.

"Hazards of the job," he says, like he's been doing it non-stop since he was a kid and didn't lose over half a decade's worth of this life to some fantasy his dad dropped him into.

Ellen's lips tighten but she just nods. "Open up that bottle then," she says without looking over at Ruby. "Figure I can pretend you're legal long enough to drink to your dad's memory," she adds.

They don't bother with much smalltalk, much to Dean's relief. Being this close to a lead has him on edge, like someone's just dangling a carrot in front of him expecting him to perform tricks if he wants so much as a nibble on it. Ellen, though, doesn't waste time. She pours them all a shot of whiskey and they make a solemn toast to a father Dean barely even knew. It burns in his throat right along with the liquor every time he thinks about his dad and their fucked up relationship - the drive-by visits, the abandonment, the fact that he went and died and left Dean to clean up this mess. It's unfair in a lot of ways, but Dean's life has always been that way. Everything, from the night his mom died right up until the morning he found his dad's body, has been one more shitty twist of fate after another.

Like she can sense it's a sore subject, Ellen doesn't try and reminisce. She tells Dean his dad used to be a friend of hers but they fell out of contact for a while.

"He was a good hunter," she says. "One of the best."

Dean's heard it time and again from the people he's run into who knew his dad and all he can do is shrug.

"Never got to see him in action but I'll take your word for it," he says.

Ellen's smile is a tiny, jagged thing that makes Dean uncomfortable to see, but it disappears as quick as it came and she clears their shot glasses while she asks how it happened.

"Demon," Ruby says before Dean can decide whether or not he wants to lie.

He narrows his eyes at her but she just makes a face at him in response. The way Ellen goes still distracts Dean from Ruby.

"Something wrong?" he asks.

Ellen shakes her head. "No, no. Just . . . was it _the_ demon? The one he was hunting?"

"The yellow-eyed demon?" Dean asks. "Nah, it wasn't him. Happened on his orders but he let someone else do the dirty work."

"And then we wasted her," Ruby says with relish. "Stupid bitch had it coming."

There's some satisfaction in Ellen's nod and for some reason that makes Dean like her just a little more. Anyone who understands how sweet revenge can be is pretty okay in his book.

"Yeah, but that just means the other one's gonna be pissed when he finds us," Dean adds. "That's why we need to find that Colt before he can get his hands on it. We're screwed if we don't."

"Well," Ellen says after a pause. "That won't be a problem."

"You know where it is?" Ruby asks.

This time Ellen's grin is just cocky enough to make Dean think that yeah, he definitely likes her.

"I do," she says.

Dean just stares at her, unable to believe the stupid luck. Even Ruby's shocked into quiet next to him, though he can feel her tense up with the need to know, _right now_ , who has it and how they can get their hands on it. Ellen opens her mouth, presumably to tell them what they want to know, when the door opens and a pair of men stomp inside. Ordinarily Dean'd brush them off as regulars or tourists, but the bags slung over their shoulders look military-issue and both men move with the hyper-awareness all hunters must eventually develop. They remind Dean of his dad - or at least of what he remembers of his dad from the last couple of times he saw him.

Ellen nods at the men in greeting and then turns to Dean.

"We'll talk later," she promises in a low voice before making her way over to the corner table the men have staked out.

Ruby's mouth is pressed into a thin line and she shares an exasperated look with Dean before craning her arm over the bar and grabbing the whiskey bottle to steal a swig.

"You're gonna pay for that," Ellen says over her shoulder.

Dean smirks at Ruby's frustrated expression but his blood thrums with urgency. The Colt's close but there's no telling how far behind the curve Azazel is anymore. Every second is strung tight like a trip wire and everything could go ass-up without notice. They just have to sit tight and wait a little bit longer, but that doesn't settle Dean's nerves any. He drums his fingers on the counter-top and tells himself it won't be much longer.

_._

The bar slowly fills with hunters as the hours pass. It's strange to see them spread out around the room, at tables alone or in pairs with their guns spread out around them or case files open in front of them. The broad network of hunters is no secret; Dean can still remember his dad seeking out their advice and expertise back when he was still new to the life. The memories are vague, sure, but his dad had to learn from somewhere, right? There's no telling if any of these people ever met John Winchester but Dean figures the chances are good. Unfortunately, he's not sure whether or not that could work in his favor. From the few stories Dean's heard - from Bobby and a handful of others he's come across - his dad made a lot more enemies or pissed off acquaintances than he did friends.

Knowing Dad, at least as well as Dean was able, that makes a lot of sense.

Dean and Ruby keep to themselves, attention on the room at all times though both of them know outright staring at anyone would be an invitation to violence. After a while Ruby starts to get restless, uncrossing and recrossing her legs and tapping her nails against the table. There's a lot of hair flicking going on, too, and Dean's about ten seconds from grabbing her and making her hold still when she shoots to her feet.

"I want food," she announces. "And fresh air."

She stalks out without waiting to see if Dean's going to follow. He sits at their table in the corner and debates it for a second, but he can already tell business is only going to stay steady or keep growing; catching Ellen alone long enough to find out what she knows about where the Colt is doesn't seem like a distinct possibility until at least the very wee hours of morning. And while Dean doesn't mind hanging around here too much, they aren't doing anything useful and he's not all that into twiddling his thumbs and waiting to see if anyone decides to lower themselves to the level of chatting up the kid in the back. Besides, hunters other than Bobby have always made Dean a little uncomfortable, partly because he's never been much of a people person or team player _anyway_ , but the demon riding shotgun with him doesn't help.

The hunters have just started to get talkative when the door closes behind Ruby and Dean gets up to follow, weaving his way through a low stream of noise punctuated by words like "vampire" and "salt rounds" and "poltergeists". Dean raises his eyebrows to himself, unused to such openness about what's really out there lurking in the dark. Ellen's wiping down the bar when Dean passes by and waves him over.

"Ruby wants a change of scenery," Dean says in answer to Ellen's questioning look.

"That girl's a handful," Ellen says with a roll of the eyes.

"You don't even know the half of it," Dean replies.

Ellen smirks and then returns to her task. "Most of these guys won't clear out until around two in the morning at the earliest. You want to come back tomorrow, we can talk in the morning. But you're welcome to head back here after your girl's stretched her legs, feel free."

Dean wrinkles his nose, grossed out at the idea that he and Ruby are anything to each other except partners in crime.

"Dude," he says. "She's definitely not _my_ girl."

Ellen just shrugs and it's not like Dean isn't used to the assumption. Still irritating, though. He pushes away from the bar.

"We can come back tonight," he says before turning and following Ruby outside.

He spots her from the doorway, leaning against the passenger side door to the Impala. It's full dark out so she's little more than a lean shape in the distance and she looks so normal like this. Half the time it would be too easy for Dean to convince himself that she's just another hunter, someone he partnered up with out of necessity and who he's learned to work with. Someone he might be able to keep around for a while.

Ultimately Dean isn't sure how things'll play out between the two of them, especially not once Azazel's dead. Chances are she'll up and vanish without a trace, the same way she dropped into his life without any warning. Dean's not sure how he feels about that; there's no sense of loss when he thinks about not having her around. She is what she is and regardless of how many times she's saved his ass, it's dangerous to trust her. Having her out of his hair will be a relief to Bobby and will mean Dean won't have to be ass worried about hunters catching on and trying to track them down. On the other hand, she's useful in a fight and he's gotten used to her constant presence over the last two years.

It's a stupid thought to be having, Dean knows. They don't have the Colt _yet_ and even when they do, they have to take out Azazel which is bound to be a harder feat than it looks on paper. Still, there's something that feels uncomfortably like hope blooming in Dean's chest and for the first time since he left Lawrence he lets himself think of a future that extends beyond the mission his dad put him on when he was still just a kid.

"I'm _starving_ ," Ruby moans as Dean draws up to the car.

"Do you even need to eat?" he asks.

Ruby turns and leans over the roof with a leer. "There are _lots_ of things I don't need to do. Doesn't mean they don't feel fucking fantastic when I do them anyway."

Dean makes a face and a disgusted noise and gets into the Impala without dignifying her with a response. Ruby slides into the passenger seat still smirking but Dean ignores her in favor of starting the car. They leave the Roadhouse behind and head toward the nearest populated area in search of a diner that's appropriately cheap and hopefully lacking any ecoli on the menu. There's a classic rock station that Dean had discovered about an hour before they'd gotten to Ellen's bar and it supplies a decent soundtrack as they drive. They've never been talkative with each other which had been something Dean found surprisingly hard to adjust to after years of driving aimlessly around town with Jimmy sitting next to him. It's not like Dean's a talker or anything, and he's definitely never been interested in much of anything Ruby has to say that isn't directly related to a job, but he still misses it sometimes.

He always cranks the music harder when he starts in with those thoughts and lets a different kind of bittersweet nostalgia flood his veins. It's not any easier to miss Sammy or Dad, but it's more appropriate. Lawrence, Jimmy . . . those things are a distraction. Everything else helps him focus, reminds him why he's out here doing this.

Ruby's voice is a low, scratchy alto as she sings along to the Rolling Stones. Dean glances sideways at her and she kicks her feet up onto the dash, probably just to piss him off. It definitely works.

"If I have to tell you one more time where your feet go in my car," Dean warns.

"You'll what?" she asks, meeting Dean's eyes in mischievous challenge.

He glares and is still trying to come up with a suitable threat when there's a flash of light. They both turn forward just in time to see a truck barreling toward them on the two-lane road. It's coming fast and even Ruby sounds scared when she says Dean's name.

"Yeah, I see him," Dean mumbles, gripping the steering wheel with both hands.

He swerves into the other lane and right into the path of another pair of headlights. Ruby yells and any sound Dean might have made dries up in his mouth, overtaken by the cotton-thick fear that settles heavy on his tongue. He yanks the steering wheel again, veering onto the shoulder. There's not much pavement before the road turns into dirt and then grass and a thin line of trees. Dean steps on the brakes; the stop's sudden and jarring enough to pitch them both forward. Dean's forehead bounces off the steering wheel and he hears the crunch of Ruby's head colliding with the windshield. It should probably hurt, Dean muses when he sits up and shifts the car into park. Instead his body's thrumming with adrenaline, same as it does when he's on a hunt.

Ruby falls back against the seat and lifts a hand to her forehead. They both watch as it comes away bloody.

"Fucking _ow_ ," she says.

"What the fuck was that?" Dean asks, still reeling from the near miss.

She shrugs, still staring at her hand. It'll heal up in a few minutes, Dean knows, but she always takes any damage done to her borrowed body as a personal affront. It's a matter of pride or something, which is weird but then Dean also kind of gets it. He hates that he does, but there it is. It's likely he's just been hanging around with her for way too long.

It's strangely quiet outside despite Dean's own harsh breathing and the rapid beating of his heart. He glances in the rearview mirror to see one of the cars has pulled over and the driver's walking toward them with a concerned look on his face. There's something wrong here but Dean can't figure out what it is. He keeps his eyes on the approaching figure in the mirror while his hands inch toward the gun he keeps tucked under his seat. It's not there, though, the crash having sent it tumbling forward somewhere near Dean's feet.

"Shit," he says.

"What?" Ruby asks. "Oh."

The word is breathed with a gravity that tells Dean his instincts are right. When he chances a glance sideways, Ruby's eyes are locked on the stranger. He's almost to the rear of the Impala now, that same worried expression twisting his features up like all he wants is to make sure everyone's all right, no harm done. A good fucking samaritan.

"We've gotta go," she says. "Dean. Dean, we have to-"

Neither of them see the guy coming up to Ruby's side of the car until he's punched through glass to grab her by the hair and pull her out through the window.

Ruby shouts and fights, doing everything she can to stay in the car, but the man overpowers her like she isn't actually a creature with supernatural strength who just happens to look like your average blonde. A cold, icy kind of terror grabs Dean by the spine and holds him immobile for the split second it takes for Ruby to grab her demon-killing knife and try to stab her attacker with it. He dodges and grabs her arm, twisting it up behind her back until there's a sickening crack and the knife falls to the ground with a dull clatter. Dean finally ducks down into his seat and grabs his gun, rolling up and turning to take aim at the man who's just stepped up to his window.

That look of concern melts into a smirk and a blink reveals inky black eyes. Dean should have known. He fires one shot, a bullseye that punches through the demon's skull and knocks him back. It won't stop him for long, though, and there's still that other one to deal with. Dean scrambles across the seat and pushes open the passenger side door, sliding out of the car with his gun level and trained on the demon who has Ruby in a tight headlock, her knife held between his fingers.

"This little toy of yours," he says, holding the blade up to Ruby's neck, "has been a pain in our collective ass for a while now."

" _Good_ ," Ruby spits. "Let me go and I'll give you a practical demonstration."

"I think I've got the mechanics of it," the demon says, lifting his eyes to Dean with a grin. "Want to see, Dean?"

It's a fucked kind of day when Dean's worried about a demon's life, but this is the first time he's been faced with Ruby's mortality and as much as he can't stand her, he _needs_ her. And after everything she's done for him, he's not about to let her go out like this.

"Let her go or I swear to God I'll kill you," Dean says.

The demon cocks his head to the side.

"With what? I've got your secret weapon right here."

"Who says I don't have something else up my sleeve?" Dean asks, all bravado and no substance.

The demon just smiles at that, a cruel twist of his mouth. "Now that's what we like to hear."

He slides the knife into the waistband of his pants, a pair of fucking khakis of all things, but all he does is exchange it for a gun. Dean barely registers the weapon in the demon's hands before the shot cracks through the night, reverberating through his ears with an echo that only seems to make the sudden pain in his leg worse. He crumples to the ground, his gun slipping from his fingers in the haze of shock that accompanies the realization that he's _just been shot_ and it _fucking hurts like a motherfucker_.

"You son of a bitch," Dean growls, reaching for the gun again.

"Ah-ah-ah," a different voice says, this one higher and lilting though still male.

A foot comes down on Dean's knuckles, the heel of a shiny-looking dress shoe grinding down until Dean folds over and grunts in pain.

"We're under orders not to kill you," the other demon says. "But Azazel never said we couldn't rough you up a bit."

"You know," Dean says, his voice choked with pain, "I should've guessed you assholes are his bitch boys. I mean, you just have the _look_."

The toe of one of those dress shoes catches Dean on the chin, the momentum from the kick jerking his head back and sending him sprawling across the dirt. Dean coughs and spits out a mouthful of blood.

"Funny," Shiny Shoes says, "considering you're the one on your knees right now."

"Man, I hate to break it to you," Dean says, "but I just don't swing that way."

Shiny Shoes comes closer and crouches next to him, gripping Dean by the back of the head and pulling him up. "Really? Because we have it on good authority that you do."

Dean goes still, the pain ricocheting through his body receding to an afterthought. There's only ever been one guy that he's been with like that and Dean has no idea how they could possibly know, not when he's done his best to cover his tracks and remove all ties he has to his life in Lawrence. The demon laughs at Dean's reaction and leans in closer, putting his lips to Dean's ear. His proximity makes Dean shudder and arch away, but the grip on his head is tight and there's nowhere for him to go.

"That's right, Dean. We know _all_ about your little Brokeback Mountain love affair. It's been a while since you've seen Jimmy, though, right? You have any idea where he even is right now? It's okay if you don't. We've got it covered."

"You leave him the fuck alone," Dean grits out.

His entire body trembles with another sick rush of fear and adrenaline and pure _anger_ and he wants nothing more than rip these fuckers limb from limb if they've even entertained a thought of hurting Jimmy. The demon pulls away, his lips twisted up in that cruel smile of his.

"Now, I'm really afraid we can't do that. But maybe, if you're a very good boy, we'll make his death a painless one when we're done with him. Only if you play nice, though."

"If you lay one fucking finger on him, I'll make you regret it," Dean promises.

The demon laughs. "Oh, I hope you try," he says.

And then he gets to his feet, rears back, and kicks Dean one more time in the temple for good measure. The world goes white with pain, and then fuzzy around the edges, and then completely dark.

_._

 _I'm getting sick and fucking tired of waking up like this,_ Dean thinks some indeterminable time later.

He's discovered that in this line of work it's not unusual to take a header and regain consciousness somewhere else entirely, but it never gets any less unsettling. It's even worse waking up with the knowledge of just who has him and why. One might think it'd be a whole hell of a lot more comforting to be capture by a pair of demons than waylaid by a ghoul or shifter, but those creatures are all generally predictable. What they want to do to him on any given day, while frightening and pretty gross, follows a pattern. Demons are harbingers of chaos; the best piece of advice anyone can give on how to deal with them is to expect the unexpected. Even then, there's still no telling what they might do.

At the end of the day, when it comes to demons there's only one surefire expectation: pain and lots of it.

Dean's already got a headstart there. His head and his face ache and his thigh burns where he was shot. The rest of his body is sore and numb, but he guesses that's more a result of sleeping on a concrete floor than anything. It's hard to tell where he is - an unfinished basement, maybe? - but at least the room's lit. There isn't a whole lot to see; four walls, a heavy door at the top of a set of concrete steps, and literally nothing else. There aren't any windows or pieces of furniture which only makes Dean more nervous. Being caged in like this isn't a good thing anyway, but not being able to see a way out makes it worse.

At least he's not tied up. Not that he's in any shape to make an escape, but having his hands free is a small relief. He takes a quick personal inventory. All of his weapons are gone and his pockets have been emptied which leaves him with zero tools on his person to help get him out of this fucked up mess. He doesn't have any injuries aside from the ones he got from the demons on the side of the road, at least, and of those the most serious is his leg. The overhead lights are dim but it's still enough illumination for Dean to be able to check himself over; the bullet went straight through and avoided any major arteries, thank fuck, but Dean's pretty sure the residual weakness he feels weighing down his body is due to sluggish blood loss. The wound's started to clot by now but when Dean presses down a thin trickle of blood accompanies the flare of pain.

He bites back a groan and reaches down to grip the hem of his t-shirt. It doesn't tear with a few simple tugs so he bends at the waist and takes one end between his teeth and the other between his fingers, wrenching his head in one direction and his hand in the other. There's a moment of resistance and then the fabric gives with a loud ripping sound. He manages to get a good strip out of it and sets himself to the task of binding his wound. Getting it wrapped up is easy enough even though it hurts like a bitch and Dean winces as he ties the loose ends off into a knot. He leans down to pull it tight with his teeth just as a shrill scream pierces the air. The sound sends a shiver down his spine and he finishes off the knot quickly. There's another scream, long enough this time for Dean to recognize who it belongs to. Ruby's voice is cracked and shredded and she yells like she's being sliced right down the middle.

Dean pushes to his feet, spurred into action by the non-stop sound of her shouts and shrieks. The steps leading up to the door are steep and it hurts like hell to make his way up to them but Dean grits his teeth and forces himself to keep moving. It's not like he's a stranger to pain, after all. This isn't anything he can't handle. He tries the doorknob and blinks when it twists and the door swings open.

"And where do you think you're going?" an amused voice asks.

Dean looks up into the black eyes of yet another demon, like there weren't already enough of these dumb fucks wandering around already. This one's wearing the skin of a pretty brunette, all cocoa-colored skin and full lips twisted into a smirk. She has on a nurse's uniform that's a soft pink instead of the standard blue and the nametag pinned to the front of her top winks as it catches the light from the hallway. Dean glances at it and wishes he hadn't - he hates giving names to these things because it reminds him that they're really just body-less assholes riding around in some poor, innocent person. This one's name is Esther and it makes Dean sick to his stomach to think she's probably in there somewhere, begging to be let out.

"Thought I might stretch my legs," Dean says in reply.

"Oh, I can help you with that," Esther says.

She reaches out and shoves him so hard he flies through the air and crashes to the floor without hitting a single step on the way down. He'd almost be impressed but there's no breath left in his lungs and his entire back feels like it's on fire after that landing.

"Fuck," he grates out, rolling onto his side and pushing up to his hands and knees.

There's another scream, louder than the others, and Dean feels so goddamn helpless he wants to vomit. He looks up toward the door but his view is blocked by Esther as she moves in front of him.

"Sounds like somebody's having a good time," she says.

Dean isn't sure he's ever wanted to kill a creature half as much as he wants to _destroy_ each and every demon he's come across in the last twenty-four hours. Anger burns hot in his gut, roiling around with a healthy dose of fear, and if these fuckers give him so much as an inch he's gonna take the whole goddamn mile and make them pay. Esther raises her eyebrows at him and grins.

"You _like_ her, don't you?" she asks. "That's our Ruby. Always hanging out with the wrong crowd , making the wrong sorts of friends."

She sets her foot on Dean's shoulder and gives a kick that lands him on his back again, the impact enough to jar a small groan out of him. _Christ_ , he hurts. And while pain may very well be all in the mind like his dad taught him when he was still young, it's the only thing currently _on_ his mind. Well, that and the ragged shouts and screams being torn out of Ruby's mouth somewhere else in the building. Dean goes to sit up and lets out a yell of his own when Esther plants the heel of her shoe on Dean's thigh, right over the bullet wound, and steps down.

"See," she says over Dean's voice, "Ruby's tough, even for a demon. We give her another couple hours before she breaks and tells us what we want to know. But half the fun of having her all tied down and at our mercy is reminding her of her place and I don't think we'll be finished doing that for a while yet."

"You're a bunch of sadistic freaks, you know that?" Dean grunts.

Esther laughs and grinds her heel down, sending another spike of pain from Dean's leg all the way up his spine. "Why, Dean. That's so sweet of you to say."

It takes everything in him, but Dean grinds his teeth, swallows the pain, and forces himself to move. She's not expecting it when he sits up and swings his legs around, sweeping her own out from under her. She falls back hard, her head bouncing off the cement with a wet thud. A burst of adrenaline gets him to his feet and he sprints to the stairs.

Esther catches up to him when he's nearly to the door, grabbing for his ankle to bring him down. Dean's insides lurch when he loses his balance but he catches himself on the stairs with his hands and kicks out behind him, the heel of his boot connecting with Esther's face twice before he feels her nose give with a crunch and she reels back, tumbling down the stairs. Dean glances over his shoulder in time to see the awkward angle of her body and the twist of her neck and thinks he's bought himself some time.

He gets to his feet but his last step toward the door is met with an invisible resistance that spreads and catches his body, holding him immobile for a long second. And then he's flying through the air, pinned to the wall on the other side of the room like a beetle in a glass case. Not just any demon can use mojo like this and Dean tries hard to ignore the flash of terror he feels before Azazel steps through the doorway and starts to casually descend the stairs.

"Still got all that fight in you, Dean," he says, eyes flashing yellow in the room's light. "Must run in the family."

"Don't you talk about them," Dean growls.

Azazel's grin cuts across his face in a crescent curve of white teeth. "Did I hit a nerve? I think I did. Oops."

Dean just glares as Azazel stalks forward. He narrows his eyes when he gets close to Dean and his smile fades, although there's that ever-present hint of it in the corners of his mouth.

"I didn't come here to start a fight," he says. "In fact, I was hoping we could have a little chat. What do you say?"

Like Dean's gonna dignify that with a response. He fights against the hold Azazel has on him but it's useless and doesn't do anything but make his body strain and pull tight in increasingly uncomfortable ways.

"I'll take that as a yes. Now, I was under the impression you found the Colt but since it's not on you and it's not in that heap of junk you drive around in, I can only assume I was misinformed."

It gets under Dean's skin as bad as anything to know that a bunch of demons had their grimy paws all over his baby and if they fucked her up then that's another grievance to tack onto the pound of flesh he already plans on collecting from each and every one of them, beginning and ending with the yellow-eyed asshole in front of him.

"Sucks for you," Dean says.

Azazel shrugs. "Sucks for the two idiots who grabbed you before you found it for me," he clarifies. "But I'm a flexible kind of guy. This is just a minor setback."

Over Azazel's shoulder, Esther's pulled herself back together and gets to her feet with a glare. She starts forward but Azazel holds up a hand and she halts immediately.

"Dean and I need to have a private talk," he says. "Why don't you go take it out on the bitch upstairs?"

Esther hesitates but it's obvious that she's not going to defy the boss. She turns on her heel and stalks out, slamming the door shut behind her.

"You got me all alone, now," Dean says into the silence. "What are you gonna do about it?"

"Just because you don’t have the Colt doesn’t mean you don’t you know where it is," Azazel says. "I have a good feeling you do, in fact, and my good feelings are never wrong. But I know you, Dean. You're stubborn. Just like your daddy. Just like your lovely mother. You're not going to tell me, am I right?"

Dean bites down on his tongue and glares, wishing like hell he could punch the demon in the face just once.

Azazel nods. "Thought so. You won't tell me what you know unless you've got a really good incentive. And I think I've got just the thing."

"I don't even like Ruby," Dean says, even though he realizes now that's at least a little bit of a lie. "So I hope you're not planning on dangling her in front of me like a carrot to get me to talk. It won't work."

"I'm not an idiot," Azazel says, a bite to his voice that chills Dean. "I know it'll take more than that."

Dean's mouth twists and bitterness coats his tongue when he bites out, "Then what? You've already killed everyone else I care about. You're fucked, you bastard. Your leverage is gone."

"Not everyone," Azazel tells him.

There's a glint in his eyes that scares Dean more than he's willing to admit and he thinks of those demons by the road, how they'd known about Jimmy which means they have to know about Missouri. That's their leverage right there and something in Azazel's expression tells Dean that they know it.

"But that’s not what this is about. I’m not looking to take anyone from you, here, Dean," Azazel says after he's let Dean stew in the quiet for a while. "In fact, I want to give back."

Dean laughs at that, the sound rough as sandpaper. "Oh, really? What are you gonna promise me, huh? Another day with my dad? A few years with my mom? They're _dead_. _You_ killed them. I sure as shit don't want you doing me any goddamn favors."

"Your brother," Azazel says without preamble.

The words stop Dean's racing thoughts in their tracks and he can feel his mouth go slack. Azazel's grin is triumphant and he releases Dean. The sudden grip of gravity pulls him to the floor but he's numb as he slumps over. He has to force his muscles to move and they scream in protest, only getting him as far as his hands and knees. He lifts his head to stare at Azazel and the demon just shrugs.

“The funny thing about bodies is that they’re never so broken that they can’t be put back together,” Azazel says. “Death is only a temporary setback when you’ve got the right connections.”

Bile rises in Dean’s throat, acidic and bitter. “What did you do to him you sick bastard?”

“Nothing you wouldn’t have begged for me to do if you’d known it was possible,” Azazel answers, the words quick and coated in slime. “Sam's not dead, Dean. He's been out there this whole time, completely alone. And I can give him to you."

Dean swallows hard. "You're _lying_ ," he says in a whisper.

"Are you really willing to take that chance?"

It's absurd and yet Dean can feel some sick bloom of hope in his chest. He barely remembers the night Sam died, everything fuzzy and indistinct, but he _knows_ his brother's dead. Why else would any of this have happened? Why else would Dad have left him? Why else would Dean have grown up with guilt grafted onto his bones like fucking adamantium, something he could never scrape off or escape from?

He's been mourning Sammy since that night and he's never questioned it. And now the same demon who killed Mom and Dad wants him to believe differently and Dean's weak enough to be tempted? Self-loathing is nothing new for him, but Dean's never hated himself more than he does in this moment.

"How do I know you're telling the truth?" Dean demands.

“I _could_ be lying,” Azazel admits. “It’d be worth it just to watch you squirm. But I want to make a deal and it wouldn’t do me any good to tell you something that ain’t true.”

Dean tightens his jaw and looks away, despising the way his body has gone still just so he can listen, so he can be ready to say “yes” when Azazel asks him to.

"Call it a miracle if you want. Either way, Sammy's alive and . . . well, he’s not _well_." Azazel pauses and adds, "There were complications."

Fuck, Dean can't believe he's actually buying into this bullshit but it's _Sammy_ and he can't just . . . . What if it's true? He lifts his head and meets Azazel's creepy eyes.

"What do you mean "complications"?"

“Bringing people back from the dead’s tough work, Dean, and it never does seem to go as smooth as we want. Sam came back missing an important piece. But we can help.”

Azazel lets the words sink in and waits, more patient than Dean’s ever seen a demon, for Dean’s response. He doesn’t seem disappointed when Dean finally speaks.

“What do you want?”

Azazel's smile sharpens at the edges. "I was afraid you wouldn't ask."  



	16. Act Two - Chapter Fourteen

 

Demons lie. That's the kind of common knowledge that everyone has in their back pocket, whether they believe in the things or not. And rule number one, the first thing anyone learns whether he's a hunter or just some kid listening to fairy tales and fables before bedtime, is that you never, _ever_ make a fucking deal with one.

Dean's heard stories about people breaking that rule and generally the collateral damage seems minimal, but that's an eternity in Hell to look forward to all in exchange for what? Some unheard of talent? A shitload of money? Nothing any demon's ever had on offer in any of the tales Dean's listened to has seemed worth it.

So it figures that when he's given a deal of his own, Dean's got a different kind of dilemma.

Azazel leaves him to think about it. Generous of him, Dean can't help but think bitterly. His thoughts chase themselves around his head over and over again and for what feels like days he finds himself wondering what his dad would do, what Mom would want. If it's even true, he tells himself. There's no _proof_.

Then again, what Azazel had to tell him is too outrageous to be a lie. If he were going to try and get under Dean's skin, he wouldn't lay it on that thick. Dean's never been gullible, for one thing. For another, he's a lifelong cynic. He stopped believing in shit like angels and God and Santa Clause when he was five years old and he's learned to question every good thing that's come into his life because there's always a catch.

In this case, there is no catch. Or there _is_ , but it's more on par with the average shit hands the Winchesters always seem to get dealt. There's no hidden trap, nothing that looks too good to be true. Outside of Azazel's claim that Sam's even alive, of course. But even that comes with its own harsh dose of reality.

"Complications". Like _fuck_. A complication would've been some memory loss or, hell, Dean doesn't know. A missing limb, maybe? A complete lack of a soul goes beyond complicated and into the realm of absolutely fucked. It makes a perverted kind of sense, all things considered, and the more time Dean has to dwell on it, the more convinced he is that Azazel's telling the truth.

Esther comes to visit a couple of times. She sits at the top of the stairs and doesn't do or say much, just watches Dean closely like she's waiting for something. It's obvious what, exactly, it is when she comes in with a bottle of water and tosses it to him. He accepts it, too thirsty and in too much pain to refuse the offering.

"You should take the deal," she says as he drinks.

He drags a hand across his mouth as he swallows and asks, "What do you care?"

"It's a good one," is all she says. "Plenty of men and women have given up a whole lot more for a helluva lot less."

Dean considers that when she leaves, thinks back on everything his family's already been through.

The guilt he's always felt over Sam's death pokes and prods at him, finding all the sensitive and vulnerable spots in his psyche and exploiting them. In the end, alive or dead, it's Dean's fault. He was supposed to protect Sam. That was _his_ job. Up until now there's never been anything Dean's wanted more than to kill Azazel for what he did to Mom and Dad and Sam. But if Sam's out there, helping him is more important than revenge.

Dad would be pissed, Dean knows. He's not around, though. Dean is. And Dean knows what's really important here.

Besides, with Dean out of the picture, everyone else will be safe, too. Missouri. Jimmy. Sammy.

In the end, it's like there's not much of a choice left at all. The next time Esther comes in, Dean pushes to his feet and meets her eyes.

"I want it," he says. "I want to take the deal."

Esther's lips are soft against his own but the kiss leaves him feeling dirty and wrong in his own skin. She pulls away with a grin and a coy, "Pleasure doing business with you, Dean Winchester." And then she's gone, leaving the door wide open behind her.

Dean feels like shit. He hadn't thought it could get any worse than that last encounter with Meg, but despite a distinct lack of a beating, Dean feels sick and tired and achy down to his bones. The stairs are a monumental challenge and he takes them one at a time, moving slower than molasses as Missouri would say. The thought of her makes Dean's heart ache; he can't ever tell her what he did. It was for all the right reasons but that doesn't mean he isn't ashamed of it. His soul is still his for the time being but there's a taint to it now, a brand laid right on it that he thinks he can practically _feel_. Maybe it's just in his head, he doesn't know. Frankly, he can't bring himself to care. There's a lot more he needs to worry about right now.

He's out of breath by the time he gets to the top of the stairs and stumbles out into a well-lit hallway. Sweat's gathered along his hairline and the base of his neck and his thigh throbs in time with his heartbeat. His legs are weak and shake as they're forced to hold up his weight, but Dean pushes on.

It's suspiciously quiet in the building, Ruby's screams having tapered off to rare occurrences what might have been a day or two ago. As he lurches down the hall, one hand on the wall to help keep him upright, he peers into the rooms that he passes. They all look nearly identical to the one he'd been locked up in - completely bare and either dimly lit or blacked out. They're all empty but Dean keeps looking anyway, wondering if the next one will be the room holding Ruby's lifeless, borrowed body.

The room at the end of the hall is the only one with anything remotely resembling furniture, although the contraption standing in the center of the space doesn't look like anything Dean's seen outside of horror movies. Considering the kind of shit he's come across in his short life, that's really saying something. It looks like the kind of dentist's chair nightmares are made of - sigils carved deep into all of its brown leather straps. At least he doesn't have to wonder where Ruby is anymore.

Her body's stretched out across the table, naked and peppered with sluggishly healing bruises and gashes all over her midsection. The thick straps holding her down by the chest and hips provide some tiny modicum of modesty, but the rest of her is bare and vulnerable. Her arms are stretched wide and held by cuffs at the wrist while her legs are strapped down at the ankles. There's a puddle of blood on the linoleum floor beneath Ruby's body and a strap of leather over the lower half of her face.

That’s not the sight that makes Dean sick to his stomach, though. It’s the cart someone’s rolled in and left next to the chair, its silver surface covered in wicked-looking blades and tools, all of them stained in blood. Ruby’s own knife is among them, the blade crusted in dry, red splotches.

Ruby makes a muffled noise when she hears Dean’s footsteps in the room and he hurries his pace so he can put himself in her line of sight.

"Just me," he says.

Her eyes are wet and there are tear tracks on her cheeks. It's weird knowing a demon can cry, even if it's just from the pain of being tortured. Dean always thought that was one of those things they were just incapable of. Her gaze darts all around the room as he reaches out to undo the face strap and she blows out a gusty breath when he peels it away.

"Dean," she says in a raw voice. "What-"

"We gotta go," he tells her.

There'll be time for questions later and he's not quite ready to hand over the answers here. They need to get as far away from here as they can and regroup, figure out what their options are now. Ruby goes quiet and watches as Dean sets himself to the task of getting her free - arms first and then her chest and hips and finally her feet. He's quiet as he works and keeps his eyes on nothing but the tongues of leather between his fingers. Demon or not, he doesn't want to make her feel any worse than she probably already does by staring at her. He can barely stand to look at her anyway without wanting to rush out of here and find something to kill.

"When the hell did you start to grow on me?" he asks, getting the last strap loose.

"Took long enough," Ruby mutters, but there's a hint of a smile on her face when Dean glances up at her.

He steps back to let her get her bearings and casts his eyes around the room in search of something for her to wear. He doesn't know if it's a good thing that her clothes are discarded in a messy pile in the corner, hates to think of how they got there, but he'll take it.

She's unsteady enough on her feet that Dean offers to help her get dressed once she's back in her underwear but she waves him off so he grabs her knife off of the cart and studies the rest of the room while he waits.

He still has no clue where the hell they are, but judging by the sterile feel of the place and the lack of any human touches, he'd be willing to bet it's an un-leased office space. He doesn't know if that's creepier than being dragged into some dirty abandoned warehouse or not, but he does know he'll never look at an office building the same.

"Let's go," Ruby says from over his shoulder.

They step out into the hallway only to be greeted by a yell and the distinct sounds of an approaching scuffle. Ruby digs her heels into the ground and reaches out to grab Dean's wrist.

"Not good," she says.

"What?" Dean asks.

She doesn't get the chance to answer before Esther comes careening around the corner with a look of fear on her face the likes of which Dean's never seen on a demon. Esther stops short at the sight of them and then looks over her shoulder.

"It killed the others," she says before meeting Ruby's eyes. "It's after us, now. We have to go, Ruby. We can help each other."

"Eat shit and die, bitch," Ruby hisses out just as a figure rounds the corner.

He's not all that impressive-looking but he moves fast, striding up to Esther as she silently begs Ruby for help. They just watch as the stranger seizes Esther by the forehead and does _something_ that brings the demon to her knees. She doesn't even make a sound as light erupts from her eyes and mouth in a flash, leaving behind a lifeless body that slumps to the ground.

Dean gapes at the man, unsure of who or _what_ he is. That never does bode well and especially not when Ruby's still struggling to stay on her feet and Dean's one good breeze away from falling over himself.

The stranger turns to them, his gaze sweeping over Dean quickly and then flicking to Ruby. He takes a step forward, the intent obvious, but Dean shoulders himself in front of her.

"Whoa, whoa, whoa," he says. "She's with me, douchebag."

Dean's a little surprised when that's enough to get the man to stop. Now that he's not in motion it's easier to see that he doesn't look like much even by human standards. He has an almost awkward, sweet-looking face framed by blond hair and if that's not enough to make him completely out of place ganking demons, he's a short son of a bitch, too. If Dean hadn't just seen what the guy can do, he wouldn't be so worried. By looks alone, Dean and Ruby could definitely take this guy. But Esther’s burned out shell of a body is a gruesome reminder that he clearly isn’t what he seems.

"So," the man says in a pleasant voice, giving Dean a once-over that makes him feel like he really needs a shower soon, " _you're_ the infamous Dean Winchester. You're a lot smaller than I thought you'd be."

"What the hell does that mean?" Dean asks. "And who the fuck are you?"

The man's eyebrows fly up toward his hairline. "You kiss your mother with that mouth?" he asks.

Dean starts forward, fury burning in his stomach, but the grip Ruby has on his wrist stops him. He looks over at her, ready to demand she let him go, but she's not looking at him. Her eyes are locked on the guy in front of them and if Dean didn't know better, he'd say that's terror lurking in the tight line of her lips.

"I'd trust your friend on this one," the guy says. "You don't want to take me on."

"Why don't you let me be the judge of that?" Dean challenges.

The man just laughs at that and Ruby's nails dig into Dean's skin at the sound. He has no idea what she's so freaked out about. Well, other than the part where this guy can apparently kill demons with a touch. Whatever he is, it's something powerful and unprecedented. Dean hasn’t come across anything about a creature like this in Dad's journal and Bobby's sure as hell never mentioned it. Even Ruby's assured Dean time and again that outside of the Colt, her knife is the only weapon capable of killing demons and there's nothing else out there with that capability, man, creature, or object.

Dean's just too damn tired to be scared, though. Whoever this cocky asshole is, Dean couldn't care less. He wants to get out of here and if he has to kill something to do it, he'll find a way.

"You're cute," the man says. "But I didn't come here to fight with you. I came as a favor to a . . . friend of yours."

"What friend?" Dean asks, wondering dubiously if maybe this guy's a contact of Bobby's or Ellen's.

The man just smiles and snaps his fingers. Dean blinks at the quiet sound and opens his eyes to find himself staring at the back of a very familiar-looking head.

"Gabriel," an equally familiar voice says, that disgruntled tone a throwback to all the times Dean himself was on the receiving end of it. "Can you _not_ do that?"

" _Jimmy_?" Dean breathes.

Jimmy turns at the sound of Dean's voice and the sight of him is like smacking an elbow against the edge of a door - it hurts so bad that it feels incredible and Dean doesn't know if he wants to laugh or start crying like a girl. He blames that last impulse on the pain and exhaustion but he knows that's just a sad attempt at lying to himself.

There are a lot more questions than answers at this point, like what the fuck kind of creature can zap a person from one place to someplace else entirely and how in the hell did Jimmy get involved with one? But none of that matters. Ruby relaxes her hold on Dean but it wouldn’t have mattered if she’d had an iron-clad grip on him; Dean would’ve broken free just to take the three lopsided, strides forward he needs to pull Jimmy into a hug.

It's awkward at first and Dean can’t help but remember all the reasons why this is a bad idea, why Jimmy might not want to touch him at all. The other man's body is stiff in the circle of Dean's arms and Dean feels a flush burning its way up to his cheeks. He goes to pull away – obviously Jimmy doesn’t want this and Dean’s not going to make it worse by pushing the issue – but  
Jimmy finally responds, hugging him back so tight it's almost uncomfortable.

Dean remembers this, the feel of Jimmy's body against his, and it's the closest to coming home he's experienced since the first time he slid into the Impala after Dad left. He closes his eyes and half-buries his face in Jimmy’s hair; he doesn’t even give a shit who sees the two of them like this.

"Dean," Jimmy says, something held in that simple word that resonates deeper than it ever has before.

They hold onto each other for long enough that Ruby and the stranger both clear their throats. When they finally separate, Jimmy stares like he's never seen Dean before. It makes Dean want to squirm on the spot. Instead he grins and tugs on the lapel of Jimmy's jacket, something he’s never seen him wear before. It's soft, worn leather that fits him like a glove. Not usually Jimmy's style - his jackets were always the standard, bought-at-a-department-store-out-of-necessity type - but it's not too fussy either. It's probably a stupid thing to notice, what with everything else going on, but Dean kinda likes it.

"What happened to your square duds?" Dean asks.

Jimmy scowls but there's a faint hint of a blush on his cheeks that makes Dean want to haul him close again. "Gabriel happened," he says, rolling his eyes in the direction of the stranger.

Dean decides he'll have to reassess his opinion of this Gabriel dude. Speaking of, Dean would like to know just what Gabriel _is_.

"Not that I’m not happy to see you, but you wanna tell me what's going on here?" he asks.

For a moment Jimmy's face closes off in an unfamiliar way and then the expression melts into one of concern and he gives Dean a once-over that's much preferable to the one Gabriel treated him to earlier.

"You're hurt," Jimmy says. "God, Dean. What'd they do to you?"

Dean shrugs. "Shot me, mostly," he answers honestly.

It's almost worth the pain and possible infection to watch the way Jimmy's eyes widen and then narrow in something that looks a lot like possessive anger. Dean's not really into that sort of thing, but it's kind of nice to be on the other end of that particular spark of feeling.

"As touching as this is," Gabriel says, voice obnoxiously loud. "We should probably get the hell out of here."

"Let's," Ruby agrees.

Jimmy meets Dean's eyes and there's something different there, something that Dean can't put a finger on. He's still trying to puzzle it out when Jimmy takes his hand and Gabriel snaps his fingers to whammy them someplace safe.

Much as Dean appreciates Gabriel's hospitality, he'd rather get some answers than sit around being fussed over. But as soon as they arrive . . . wherever the hell this is, Jimmy grabs Dean by the arm and leads him down the hall to an immaculate sitting room. The carpets are white and the couches look like the kind only ever found in magazines or maybe those historical dramas Dean and Missouri have always hated. Jimmy deposits Dean onto an oblong loveseat-looking thing with two arms, no back, and surprisingly soft cushions. Cushions that are as clean and white as the floor.

"Uh," Dean says, glancing around uncomfortably. "I don't want to mess up your friend's furniture."

"Fuck it up," Gabriel says from the doorway. "I don't care. That's the only reason I have this room."

Dean raises his eyebrows. "This is where you throw all the wild parties, huh?"

Gabriel smirks. "You don't know the half of it, kid."

Being referred to as "kid" rankles, but Dean's too tired to let it get under his skin. Besides, he's a little preoccupied watching Jimmy dart in and out of the room, coming back each time with something new until he's set up a bowl of hot water, a towel, and a first aid kit.

"Take off your pants," Jimmy says.

If Dean's being honest, and at this point he doesn't see any reason not to be, it isn't like he hasn't fantasized about seeing Jimmy again and hearing something similar come out of his mouth. The circumstances are less than ideal, though, and there's none of the rough, aroused quality to his voice that Dean's dreamt about more than he'd care to admit in the last two years. He thinks about arguing, but his leg does need to be looked at and Jimmy doesn't look like he's willing to let Dean take care of that on his own.

"Yes, Nurse Nightingale," Dean mutters.

He unties the makeshift bandage, first, and winces when the fabric pulls at the rough edges of the blood crusting his jeans and the skin beneath. He's aware of Gabriel still lurking in the doorway with Ruby just over his shoulder as he undoes the fastenings to his jeans, but they might as well be statues or blots on the wallpaper when Jimmy reaches out to help Dean slide the jeans past his hips. The brush of Jimmy's fingers is casual and business-like but it still makes Dean's skin buzz pleasantly. The way his body wants to respond, even in spite of the bullet hole and exhaustion and malnourishment, you'd think Dean hadn't gotten laid since the last time Jimmy had a hand on him.

That's not true, obviously. Dean's a guy and he's got needs and when he and Jimmy parted ways it wasn't exactly amicable. Granted, Dean never once looked at another guy and couldn't bring himself to fuck girls with blue eyes or short brown hair because of how awkward it made him feel, but he'd done his best to get over Jimmy. It had all been in vain and, clearly, absence hasn't done much other than make the heart - and other parts of his anatomy - grow fonder.

Dean pulls his hands away and lets Jimmy take over, peeling the denim down Dean's thighs as carefully as possible. There's a bit of a roadblock while Dean kicks off his boots, but then he's laid out on Gabriel's pretty little lounge in nothing but a henley and some boxers, blood-stained and smelling nothing like roses. He chances a glance down at his thigh and winces at the sight of the jagged hole that bullet put in him, looking away quickly as Cas dips cloth into hot water and sets about cleaning the wound. Dean grits his teeth against the sting and tries to find something else to focus on. There's not exactly a lack of distracting topics, particularly not with all of the questions he still has.

"So," Dean says, catching Gabriel's eye so he won't be tempted to watch Jimmy work, "how'd you do that back there, anyway?"

"Do what, exactly?" Gabriel asks, though there's a playful note to his tone that tells Dean he's just being screwed with.

"Gank that demon. Pull Jimmy out of thin air. Bring us here. Pick one," Dean says.

"I am a man of many talents," Gabriel says.

Ruby snorts and raises her eyebrows when he cranes his head around to stare at her.

"Is that skepticism I see on your face?" Gabriel asks and she rolls her eyes.

"No, that would be 'stop the bullshit and give a straight answer' you're seeing right now," she shoots back.

Dean watches Gabriel's eyes narrow and feels a flash of apprehension that's chased away by a stinging burn when Jimmy hits him with a splash of rubbing alcohol.

" _Shit_ , Jimmy," he hisses out.

"Shut up and sit still," Jimmy shoots back, not bothering to glance up from the task at hand.

Across the room, Gabriel and Ruby seem caught in a standoff. And then Gabriel grins and reaches out to pinch one of Ruby's cheeks. She slaps his hand away and stumbles back half a step with an expression caught between horror and disgust.

"I think I like this one," he says. "Can we keep it?"

Jimmy lifts his head at that and fixes Gabriel with an unimpressed stare. "Really?" he says.

Gabriel shrugs. "Your boy seems to like her," he points out.

"I'm nobody's _boy_ ," Dean says, more of a knee-jerk reaction than anything. "And no, you can't keep her. She's with me."

"Is that so?" Gabriel asks while Jimmy's eyes find Dean's and then flick away quickly.

Great. Now Jimmy probably thinks the same thing as everyone else and before Dean can clarify, Jimmy speaks up.

"He's an angel of the Lord," he says quietly.

Dean blinks down at him and then looks over at Gabriel whose face is twisted up in disgust.

" _Arch_ angel of the Lord, actually," he says. "But I definitely liked it better when I was the Trickster god."

Dean's cynicism definitely isn't a well-kept secret, here. He and Jimmy never did see eye-to-eye on the whole God and faith thing because for Dean there _isn't_ one. So his initial response is to scoff.

"Right," he says. "An angel."

" _Arch_ angel," Gabriel corrects him, his eyes losing most of their good-humored spark and lighting with something else entirely.

It's enough to make Dean's blood run a little cold, the same kind of feeling he gets when he's facing down a creature he knows can kill him in an instant if he makes the wrong move. The difference here is, Dean always knows what to do with those sons of bitches and no matter how much respect he has for their potential to inflict damage, it's never translated into this out-of-place sense of trepidation that swells up from nowhere.

Even with Jimmy here and with everything he's done so far, in effect Gabriel's as unpredictable as Ruby on her best days and way more powerful. Dean had expected to find out he’s something crazy, possibly even unheard of, but the angel thing is so farfetched it has to be impossible. There's no way this isn't some kind of joke Jimmy and Gabriel are in on.

Only, the punchline never comes. And when Dean swings his eyes to Ruby, she just shrugs at him like she's known all along.

"Angels? You expect me to believe that? Jimmy, man. Come on. I know you're a Bible-thumping freak for Jesus and all, but . . ." He trails off and it catches up to him. He doesn't know a whole lot about angelic lore in the first place, but he's not an idiot. "Wait. Gabriel? As in the archangel from the fucking _Bible_? How gullible do you think I am?"

Gabriel's mouth twists. "You don't want me to answer that question."

Dean frowns and looks down at Jimmy. His head's bent and even though he's obviously paying careful attention to Dean's wound, his focus is a little too laser-like to be anything but put on. Dean's not so much a fan of being avoided or ignored, especially not when Jimmy's just told him that the winged creatures from Christian lore are real and live in what Dean has a feeling is a slightly modified version of the Playboy Mansion.

"Jimmy," Dean says.

Jimmy jerks his head up and his eyes flash with frustration and quickly veiled hurt. " _What_ , Dean?" he snaps.

Just like that, Dean remembers all the reasons why he and Jimmy always seem to end up at each other's throats sooner or later. Dean didn't even do anything and Jimmy's already gotten all pissy. Which, fine, Dean probably deserves more of that and less of Jimmy's empathy at this point, but Dean really couldn't care less about that right now. If Jimmy wants to have it out over that then fine, but he has no right to start yanking Dean's chain and treating him like he's an idiot or a child or _both_. Not after everything he's been through.

"You know what? Fine. I'll bite. It's a couple months late for an April Fool's joke but since everyone seems to be in on it, I'll play along."

Gabriel regards him for a long moment and then rolls his eyes.

"My baby brother sure can pick 'em," he says.

Dean blinks in confusion but Gabriel walks out without saying another word. He grabs Ruby by the hand and pulls her along with him, muttering something about idiots who need to talk and how he's not nearly drunk enough for this shit. And that's supposed to be an angel of the Lord.

"Are you gonna tell me what's really going on here?" Dean asks.

Jimmy stares at him and the nudges his hip and says, "Roll over. I need to get to the other side of this."

It's an annoying non-answer, the kind Dean's always been pretty skilled at. He wonders as he turns over onto his stomach if maybe Jimmy picked that up from him. They're quiet as Jimmy cleans the other side of the wound, reigniting Dean's awareness of the ache. It had faded for a bit there, what with all the crazy talk going on. It's back now and he tucks his face into the crook of his arm to hide his winces.

"It's the truth," Jimmy says after a while. "Gabriel _is_ an archangel. It's . . . a really, really long story."

"Uh-huh," Dean mutters.

There's a gusty sigh and then Jimmy says, "You're always so damn _pigheaded_. Just because you don't want to believe something, that doesn't make not true. This isn't some existential, philosophical argument about faith versus proof. Angels have been around for a long time."

"How do you even know?" Dean asks, lifting his head so his words won't be muffled. "You can't just take shit like this on faith, Jimmy."

There’s a pause long and thick enough to make Dean uncomfortable.

"I _know_ ," Jimmy finally says, "because I _am_ one. Or I was once."

Dean pushes up onto his elbows and looks over his shoulder at Jimmy as he presses a bandage into place. On the outside it looks like he didn't just drop a nuclear warhead on Dean and everything he's always known, but there's a tremor to his fingertips that betrays his nervousness and Dean's torn between wanting to accept that as evidence that it's true, that at the very least Jimmy believes it’s true, and refusing to buy into it. In the end he can't think of a damn thing to say to that that isn't _you're fucking crazy_ or _that’s impossible_.

Jimmy finishes getting him patched up and then pushes to his feet without meeting Dean's eyes.

"You really need to eat something. And we should get you hydrated. And then-"

"Shut up."

Jimmy's jaw clenches and he turns his head away, like he wants to escape Dean's gaze but can't bring himself to just leave.

"You want to tell me what you meant by that? Because that's a stupid, cruel trick to play on me and you know it."

"What's so cruel about it?" Jimmy asks, his eyes finally snapping to Dean's. "You don't believe me anyway, right? You think I'm crazy."

Dean would like to be able to say the thought hadn't crossed his mind, but come on. Everything everyone's said in the last fifteen minutes has sounded like the delusional ramblings of one of those Fundamentalist whackjobs who stand on street corners slinging miniature gospels at people for Jesus, and Dean would be willing to bet most of those guys are a few fries short of the full Happy Meal. When Dean doesn't answer, Jimmy huffs out a bitter laugh.

"Gabriel told me you'd be an asshole about this," Jimmy says.

"Oh, _Gabriel_ told you, huh?"

He sounds jealous and, hell, maybe he is. As long as Dean’s known Jimmy it’s just been the two of them against the world. Parents and Missouri aside, they had each other and no one else. Jimmy never went to his church friends with his problems; they weren’t there taking care of him all that time before he was fully and miraculously recovered. Jimmy knows Dean better than anyone else alive _or_ dead and Dean always thought the same went for him.

This Gabriel guy, whoever and whatever he is, doesn’t get to just waltz in and talk shit about Dean and tell Jimmy all these fucked up lies. Who the hell does he think he is?

Jimmy doesn’t say a word. They just stare at each other, eyes narrowed and jaws clenched; it feels like being back in Dean's bedroom, fighting for the last time. There's this ache that blooms in his chest, yawning and familiar, and more than anything Dean wants it gone. He’s lived with it for long enough.

There’s no way either of them will back down, Dean knows. He’s left to hope for the tension simmering in the room to boil over. Maybe if they just fight it out – with fists, with words, the whole goddamn nine – they can get all of this settled. It’s not like there’s a shortage of issues they need to resolve. Dean can feel them all just under his skin, making him feel sick with guilt and anger and hurt like it’s all fresh again.

Based on the rigid set of Jimmy’s shoulders and the way his eyes flash with white-hot anger, he feels it to.

For a second Dean thinks Jimmy’s going to give into it. He’s prepared to yell and scream, to pull the truth out of Jimmy and to apologize for being a dick and whatever else needs to happen. But instead of lashing out, Jimmy turns on his heel and walks away. Dean watches him, shocked and confused, and doesn’t find his voice until Jimmy’s almost to the door.

"Jimmy!" he yells.

That's enough to get the other man to respond. He spins on his heel in an aggressive flurry of movement and when he speaks, his voice is low and gravelly and very obviously pissed off.

"My name," he growls, "is Castiel."

Dean doesn't know why that hits him like a set of brass knuckles to the jaw. Maybe because Dean’s had himself half-convinced that Jimmy’s only pulling this angel shit to get back at Dean for being an asshole and leaving the way he had.

The gravity in Jimmy’s voice, though, and the fervent look in his eyes isn’t put on; Dean knows because Jimmy’s never been a good actor and he’s always been able to see past the other man’s bullshit. The harder Dean looks now, the more clear it becomes that there’s nothing to see aside from Jimmy’s whole-hearted belief in what he’s said tonight.

There’s no way it’s true, it’s not possible – but maybe it is and God does Dean hate himself for wondering – but Dean has the feeling that it doesn’t matter. Angel or not, Jimmy’s gone. Somehow, when Dean wasn’t looking, _this_ happened and now he’s lost to Dean forever even though he's only a few feet away.

Dean's fists clench and he twists the unease and premature grief right around, turns it into something he's more familiar with and more equipped to handle right now.

"Fine. Jimmy was dead to me anyway."

Jimmy - Castiel . . . whoever. He stares at Dean for a long moment, expression completely unreadable.

"You're a liar," he finally says.

And then he walks out and leaves Dean alone in the room with nothing but a blood-stained towel and a lukewarm bowl of water for company.

  
  
 

  
"Where in the _hell_ have you been, boy?"

Bobby's sharp tone doesn't help Dean's aching head much and he's just glad no one's around to see him wince at the sound.

"It's kind of a long story," Dean says.

"Then you'd better start talkin'."

Dean picks at the bandages wrapped around his leg and tries to figure out the best place to start. On the one hand he can cut to the chase and make it a nice and simple tale of kidnapping, torture, and . . . angelic rescue. The problem with that is that it leaves out everything about the last few days - weeks? - that's important.

The deal he made sits heavy on his chest and shoulders, weighing him down like a full suit of armor and drawing the same loud, clanking attention to itself every time Dean so much as moves. He has to tell someone at some point, he knows, and Bobby's the perfect candidate. If nothing else, he'll have leads on where to find Sammy and he may have some ideas on what to do with the Colt. Hell, if there's a way to get out of this fucking deal maybe he'll know that, too. But Dean's not optimistic.

What he should do is come clean but the truth is he's scared. Saying it out loud will make it real. Not only that, but it's just proving Bobby right, isn't it? The older man's been harping on Dean from day one about Ruby and her bad influence. This has nothing to do with her but it's not like Bobby'll see it that way. All he'll see is a dumb kid who went and made himself a deal with the same fucking demon who wasted his entire family. Dean's never been one for regrets and if he can save Sam then he knows he didn't make a mistake here; doesn't wash away the taste of shame that sticks to the back of his tongue, though.

"Azazel sent some of his bitch boys after us," Dean finally says after Bobby threatens to kick his ass six ways from Sunday if he doesn't answer the goddamn question. "They caught us out on some abandoned stretch of highway and the next thing I knew I woke up in a locked room somewhere."

"And your demon couldn't talk her friends into letting you go?" Bobby asks.

"They tortured Ruby that entire time," Dean says, his voice harsher than he means it to be.

"Can't say I'm sad to hear that," Bobby says. "What about you? They torture you, too?"

"Shot me," Dean admits. "Beat me up pretty good."

He doesn't want to admit that after a while the most the demons did to hurt him was refuse him food and water. In terms of how the things usually operate, Dean got off so lightly that anyone would be suspicious. The last thing he needs is for Bobby to start asking questions because, honestly, Dean doesn't think he has it in him right now to lie outright.

"We found your car on the road a few hours after you disappeared," Bobby says after a moment. "Been lookin' for your sorry asses ever since."

There's a gruffness to Bobby's voice that Dean recognizes from their first meeting after Dad disappeared. Dean isn't surprised that Bobby's been worried, but it's still strange to think that's one more person to add to the list of those he'll be leaving behind. Granted, he can pretty much cross Jimmy off now, so he figures that’ll even the numbers out again.

"Is the Impala okay?" Dean asks, trying to steer his thoughts away from the direction they want to head in.

"You kiddin' me? Of all the questions you could ask me right now, that's the one you're going with?"

"Well," Dean reasons, "if something'd happened to the Colt you'd have said. And if some shit had hit the fan you'd be yelling at me for it right now. Besides, I'm jonesin’ for my baby."

Bobby makes a huffed sound that's a cross between frustration and fondness. "Yeah, she's all right. Fixed her up where she was worse for wear. Been waitin' out here for you since."

It's the stupidest thing but Dean's stomach warms with a relief so profound he actually feels a little lightheaded. Everything's fucked up right now but that's something he can cling to and dammit, he doesn't care if it makes him weak to do so. All things considered, he's entitled.

"Look," Dean says. "We'll be down there as soon as possible. Just . . . keep a low profile, okay?"

"What do you think I am? Stupid?"

Dean laughs and is about to say goodbye when something else occurs to him. "Hey, Bobby? What do you know about angels?"

Silence settles on the other line and it's a moment before Bobby answers. "Not much," he says. "There's a lot of lore, obviously, but it ain't like anybody's actually _seen_ one."

"Right."

Dean sucks his bottom lip between his teeth and wonders if he should say anything about Gabriel, ask if any of that jives with the lore. Lore that, Dean has to admit to himself, he has no clue about anyway. What he knows about angels is limited to what he's seen on Hallmark cards. Gabriel certainly doesn't fit the mold, and Jimmy . . . fuck, there's absolutely no explaining _that_ since he's not a 'shifter or a ghoul or anything else but he can’t be an angel. There’s just no way.

It can wait, for now. Dean's not even sure he buys it, yet, and the last thing he needs is for Bobby to find out Dean's been fooled by some monster masquerading as one of God's right hand halos for hire.

"Dean?" Bobby's tone is probing and a little harsh, like he just knows Dean's hiding a whole shitload of vital details.

"I'll fill you in on everything when we get there," Dean says. "Shouldn't be more than a couple days."

Bobby mumbles something in agreement, with an added comment Dean misses most of. He does catch something about "dumbass Winchesters", though, and it makes him smile to himself. They hang up a few moments later and Dean falls back against the bed.

To give credit where it's due, Gabriel sure does have a good sense of what's comfortable. He'd glared at Dean after that blow-up with Jimmy and told him to find a room or fuck off, he didn't care. Dean had wanted to take him up on the latter offer, but Ruby had demanded rest and relaxation and pointedly reminded him that he was exhausted, malnourished, and injured.

"Where, exactly, are we going with you like this?" she'd asked. "You're a liability right now, Dean."

Dean hadn't wanted to concede the point but in the end there hadn't been a choice. So he'd found a room that wasn't decorated in freakish, tacky decor from an era long past (there's a room somewhere in this place with a disco ball and Dean still shudders to think about it), called Bobby, and now he's stuck here for a day or two, however long it takes to convince Ruby he's fine to travel.

He falls back on the bed - which is, admittedly, sinfully comfortable - and lets out a stream of frustrated curses. This is the last place he wants to be right now. It's the last place he _needs_ to be. There's this rush of urgency in Dean's blood, grafted onto his bones, that wants to propel him forward. Time is precious now and it feels like such a fucking waste spending it in this place that's more palace than home with people it hurts to look at doing nothing but willing himself to heal faster.

Sammy's out there somewhere. Dean's mind hasn't wandered far from his little brother since he first got the news and now there's nothing more important than finding him. Fuck the Colt, fuck the deal, fuck _everything_. He could be anywhere and Dean plans on doing everything humanly possible to find him. So this sitting around with his thumbs up his ass thing? Threatening to drive him up the fucking wall already and it's only been a handful of hours.

The whole building is eerily silent as Dean leans back against a mountain of pillows and stares up at the ceiling. He hasn't heard much since he locked himself in here. Other than a visit from Ruby, Dean hasn't seen anyone else since they first got here. That doesn’t surprise him, all things considered. Hell, it makes him uncomfortable to even think about having to face either Jimmy _or_ Gabriel again, so he figures that's not actually a bad thing.

Still, the lack of sound is oppressive and reminds Dean too much of those quiet hours between Ruby's pained screaming and Esther or Azazel's visits. He would sit in that room and strain his ears for a footfall or a pindrop, anything to remind him he wasn't alone.

No matter how many times he tells himself he's safe now, he can't get himself to relax. There's tension in his neck and back and shoulders that's got him ready to start throwing punches or take off on a sprint at a moment's notice. On top of that, his mind keeps wanting to drift toward topics he'd rather leave alone for now. He doesn't want to think about the condition Sammy's in and he doesn't want to think about the deal and he definitely doesn't want to think about the fact that Jimmy's apparently lost his mind. He absolutely refuses to even consider the idea that Jimmy might be completely sane.

It's all just too fucking much to deal with right now considering he's already exhausted, famished, smells like shit, and has a hole in his leg from where he was recently _shot_.

Dean literally hates _everything_ in that moment and he knows that any attempts at sleep will be fruitless when he's already so restless. Wandering around probably isn't the best idea right now but he figures maybe he can at least find the kitchen and get some food into his system. He’s so hungry it’s starting to hurt and maybe after that he’ll find a shower and get cleaned up.

These are small goals but they feel important enough to get him moving. He swings his legs over the side of the bed with a wince and grits his teeth when he puts weight on his injured leg. It hurts like a motherfucker but he tells himself it's nothing he can't handle and limps over to the door.

Somehow he's not surprised that Jimmy's on the other side when he pulls it open, but the sight of the other man sitting across the hall with his legs stretched in front of him like Jimmy always used to sit still makes Dean stop short.

"You're pretty much the last person I want to see right now," Dean says.

Jimmy looks up at him but Dean can't read his expression. It's not like there's nothing there; more like there's _too much_. Dean's never dealt well with emotional stuff in the first place but this is beyond anything he's really equipped to handle. Whatever's going through Jimmy's head, all the things that are reflected on his face, it's like spinning in circles and trying to make sense of the world at the same time – everything's just a blur.

That's how Jimmy feels to Dean, like a smear of color and substance Dean should recognize but can't.

"We need to talk," Jimmy says.

Just the prospect of having to sit down and discuss anything with Jimmy makes Dean's throat close up. He doesn't want to hear any more about these stupid angels, he doesn't want to know what Jimmy thinks he was or is or whatever the fuck. Dean's got way too much on his damn plate right now and he'd like to avoid adding to it if at all possible.

But there's finally a set to Jimmy's mouth that Dean remembers, that same stubborn expression that Dean's half convinced Jimmy learned from him. The familiarity of it is almost enough to melt Dean's, frankly feeble, defenses. Almost, but that only counts in horseshoes and grenades and Dean's still too tired for this shit.

"How about we don't and say we did?" Dean says before he attempts to limp down the hall with as much dignity as possible.

Jimmy follows, just like Dean knew he would, and he doesn't pay any attention to the brush-off he's just been given.

"I was thinking," Jimmy says, "that you could try _not_ being an asshole about this."

Dean snorts. "I'm not the one going around talking about how I used to be some freak with wings and a halo."

" _Dean_ ," Jimmy growls and _Jesus_ even his voice seems different.

It's enough to stop Dean in his tracks but he stays facing forward, eyes glued to the end of the hall while he gnaws on the inside of his cheek.

"I was hearing things and having these dreams about you and your hunts. I thought I was going crazy," Jimmy says. "Everybody did. They _institutionalized me_. And you know what? The whole time all I could think about was you and how you were in danger and I had to help somehow.”

Dean tries to let the words sink in but he doesn’t want to listen so they just bounce around in his ears and don’t mean much of anything at all.

“I don’t know what you want from me but I don’t think I can give it,” Dean says.

Jimmy makes a small sound of frustration and anger. “I can't make you believe me but after everything I went through for you, I can damn well demand a little _respect_."

The proper response probably isn't the abrasive laugh that claws its way out of Dean's chest and bounces off the walls without a trace of humor to soften the sound, but it's the one Jimmy gets. Fuck, if Jimmy wants to compare sacrifices and battle scars then Dean's more than willing to go there. Between the two of them it's clearly no contest and a part of Dean wants nothing more than to shove it in Jimmy's face and rub his dumb, sanctimonious little nose in it.

That's the part that sparks movement. Dean pivots, ignoring the flare of pain in his leg so he can get into Jimmy's space and stare him down.

"And what did you go through, huh? What the _fuck_ do you think you've done for me? Other than being a huge pain in my ass, I mean, because wow did you do a bang-up job there."

Jimmy's eyes narrow and darken with something unnamable, something that makes every single one of Dean's fight-or-flight instincts perk up and pay attention.

"I'm _here_ because of you," Jimmy says. " _I gave up everything._ "

Two simple statements, that's all, but they land between the two of them with a force that sends Dean's pulse staggering. His gaze is locked on Jimmy's and he's stuck in place like he just wandered into a pool of tar.

"I don't even know what that means," Dean says.

He means for the words to be caustic and mean and dismissive but fuck if he doesn't sound confused and small instead. The last thing he wants right now, or ever, is to be vulnerable. But Jimmy's conviction and those damn blue eyes are too much for Dean to stay strong against, not when he's in this condition. Any second now he's sure he'll start lashing out like a scared, wounded animal but right now he seems to have lost all of his bite.

"It's a long story," Jimmy says. "But I could tell you."

Dean's mouth goes dry and he's surprised by how much he wants that. Not because he wants to believe, but he's curious. And it's Jimmy and since when has Dean ever _not_ wanted everything the other man's offered him? Of all Dean's vices - the sex and the food and the alcohol and the weed and, for a couple of sticky teenage summers, the cigarettes - Jimmy's always been the only one capable of bringing Dean to his knees.

It's unnerving to think that one person can have that kind of power over him and Dean balks at it, wants to rear back and start swinging until Jimmy loosens his hold on Dean. He might have, too, if that hold was a physical one.

"I can't do this right now," Dean says, his voice thin and weak in his own ears. "I just can't, Jimmy."

Jimmy flinches, whether at the rejection or the sound of his name or both, but he doesn't fight it. He doesn't say a word. So Dean seizes the opening and limps away from him.

Turns out leaving him behind is no easier this time around.


	17. Act Two - Chapter Fifteen

  
  
  
Having spent the human equivalent of a very short lifetime with emotions is different now that Castiel's . . . fully aware of himself again. When he was just Jimmy, having feelings came naturally because he didn't know any better. It was a simple thing to be sad or happy or angry, even if it could sometimes be painful. Now that Castiel remembers the life that came before this, it's different. Emotions still come naturally, but Castiel can't help but feel bitter about how all-consuming they are.  
  
Case in point - he's been living with a broken heart ever since Dean left. The words seem so trite when he thinks about it, but Castiel’s at a loss to find another description that fits. In all of his years of existence he's never known anything to hurt so _badly_. It's a metaphysical pain that defies explanation. It's a transcendent hurt.  
  
Castiel understands why people write song after song about this hollow, aching feeling that stings and bleeds without ever once manifesting itself physically. The only way to help is to purge it somehow. He’d find some way of doing that if he could, but the only person he wants to talk to about it is the same one who’s left him feeling like this in the first place.  
  
So he’s left listening to others wring themselves out, trying to get some vicarious release as he listens to the same disgustingly depressing song on repeat for hours. He’d done the same thing two years ago, trying a tactic he’d seen on television once. It had worked then, but the pain is worse this time. Dean's doubt is a sharper, crueler knife now than his heavy-handed rejection was then.  
  
Feeling things is just so inconvenient, Castiel thinks as he lets his mind drift. But it's like a sore muscle he can't help but stretch and poke at, just because there's something delicious about being able to sense anything at all. Angels are creatures of intent; they were all created with a certain purpose in mind and none of them have ever had the capacity for anything remotely resembling a human experience.  
  
Even Castiel's superiors, the angels who prompted him to disobey, were absolutely soulless in everything they did. Cold logic and abstract desires completely lacking in any kind of passion were what prompted their actions. Castiel's response wasn't so much a change of heart as it was a growth of one and he wouldn't go back to being the creature he was before that. Blindly following orders after so many years of making his own choices and being his own person sounds like its own existential kind of hell.  
  
He'll take the heartache and the impulse he has to punch Dean in the face and the swell of affection their fight wasn't able to stomp out. He'll take it all because it's better than what he had. It may be blasphemous to believe so, but Castiel also can't help thinking that his Father would never have made humans with the capability to feel all of these things if there wasn't some beauty to be found in the experience. Granted, a lot of it _sucks_ , but it's better than being a soulless, celestial void.  
  
Of course, these things he tells himself about the benefits of having a heart are a cold comfort when he knows Dean’s got the werewithal and the stubbornness necessary to continue being a prick for the foreseeable future. Castiel knows from experience that things are likely to get much worse before they get better.  
  
 _If_ they get better.  
  
A silent clap of thunderous energy in the room is all the announcement Gabriel gives before he drops in.  
  
"Oh, _what_?" he asks in disgust.  
  
Castiel lifts his head and watches as Gabriel takes long strides toward his music player and shuts it off. The sudden silence is uncomfortable but Gabriel fills it quickly enough.  
  
"You have terrible taste," he says, flopping onto the bed next to Castiel and taking up most of the space. "In dudes. And in music, actually, but mostly in dudes."  
  
"I don't want to talk about it," Castiel mutters.  
  
"Tough shit, cupcake," Gabriel says. "You know we can't do that. Even if your boy never gets his head pulled out of his own ass, I can already tell you won't be willing to walk away from this one."  
  
That's true enough. It's more than Castiel's feelings for Dean, of course, but they certainly complicate things. What was once a simple act of doing what was right, a rebellion inspired by a fierce affinity for the two souls of the Winchester brothers, has been made into something else. Castiel will never be able to act simply again, he knows. Dean's completely ruined him for that. He's cast a spectrum of color into a world that was once black and white and now Castiel lives in the gray area.  
  
"I have to protect him," Castiel says.  
  
He can practically hear Gabriel rolling his eyes. "Or you could just take my approach," he says. "Fuck it and _que sera, sera_."  
  
They've only talked around this issue before without really addressing it directly. Gabriel, for all the time he's spent as a pagan deity, still considers himself above Castiel in all things, especially now that Castiel's human. It's as obnoxious now as it was when they were still members of the Host, although back then Castiel went out of his way to make sure those feelings of annoyance didn't linger and fester and nudge him toward a fall. He has no such qualms now, and he turns his head on the pillow to glare at Gabriel just because he can.  
  
"I didn't ask you for help," Castiel points out. "You're the one who tracked me down and started _doing_ things. You’re not chained to my side. You can go if you want."  
  
Gabriel stares up at the ceiling for a long moment and then shrugs. "Eh. You losers would be toast without me. You were never all that juiced up in the first place and bad as he may be, the demon's got nothing on my phenomenal, cosmic powers."  
  
It's Castiel's turn to roll his eyes. He doesn't remember Gabriel having an ego quite this big back in Heaven. Apparently all his time spent down here, tormenting humans and having sex with hookers and developing what Castiel has observed to be an obscene sweet tooth, has done wonders in that capacity.  
  
Then again, he's not _wrong_. Castiel has a lot of knowledge but he's still weak. Even Dean's more powerful than he is when it comes right down to who would be more useful in a fight. Castiel isn't sure he trusts Gabriel not to take off as soon as things get hairy - and they will, Castiel just doesn't know quite when or how - but he at least trusts that if Gabriel says he'll help, he'll do what he can until he feels threatened.  
  
A part of Castiel is pissed when he thinks of Gabriel's cowardice, but he also knows there has to be more to it than that. The archangel he once knew was powerful but more sensitive than the others, possibly due to the amount of time he spent winging it down to earth to speak directly to humans. Castiel knows from experience that a brush with just one special human soul can be enough to awaken a world of thought and almost-feeling that isn't intrinsic to them. Gabriel was in contact with almost every man or woman their Father singled out for a unique purpose. There's no way that didn't have some kind of impact.  
  
So maybe this Gabriel is self-reliant, aloof, and more concerned with his own survival than anything else, but Castiel refuses to believe that's all there is to him. And they really do need him.  
  
"Just . . . promise not to smite Dean," Castiel eventually says. "Because trust me, he _will_ tempt you."  
  
Gabriel huffs out a sigh and then sits up, licks his hand, and thrusts it toward Castiel. "Fine. But if he keeps making you into such a sadfaced pussy, I reserve the right to teach him a lesson. _Gently_ ," he adds at Castiel's reproachful look.  
  
Castiel considers it and then nods. "Fine," he says.  
  
Gabriel raises and eyebrow and wiggles his hand. Gross. Gross, gross, gross. Castiel scrunches his face up in disgust but licks his own palm and slaps it to Gabriel's with a shudder. They shake on it - Gabriel more gleefully than Castiel - and as soon as he has his hand back, Castiel wipes it on the comforter.  
  
When he looks up again, Gabriel's expression has shifted from smug and amused to extremely annoyed. His lips twist down at the corners and his eyes narrow but he just blows out a sigh when Castiel raises his eyebrows in question.  
  
"I'm pretty sure your boy's trying to steal one of my cars," he says before raising his eyebrows. "They don't honestly think they're leaving without us, do they?”  
  
Castiel’s still trying to get the words “he’s not my boy” out of his mouth when Gabriel snaps his fingers. Traveling like this is infinitely unsettling as a human – it’s like being shoved through a very thin space with no air and no light and while it only lasts a millisecond, the feeling of discomfort lingers for hours after.  
  
“You’re really rude houseguests, you know that?” Gabriel says while Castiel tries to sort himself out.  
  
He looks across the garage to see Ruby leaning against the side of a car while Dean straightens up from where he’d been trying to hotwire it. He looks more pissed off than guilty at being caught, but Ruby’s expression clearly reads _I told you so_.  
  
“I tried to tell him,” she says with a shrug.  
  
“Look,” Dean says, sitting up and glaring through the window at Gabriel and Castiel, “I’ve got shit to do. I can’t sit around doing nothing.”  
  
“You could, actually,” Gabriel points out. “It’s not exactly difficult.”  
  
Dean’s face darkens and Castiel’s sure the other man is imagining what it’d be like to punch Gabriel in the face. Pleasant as the thought probably is, Castiel wants to tell him the reality wouldn’t live up to the expectation. Then again, Dean wouldn’t believe him and would probably just try it anyway.  
  
“You can’t keep us here,” Dean says.  
  
“I don’t want to,” Gabriel says. “But I’m not letting you steal one of my cars either. I worked hard for those.”  
  
Castiel rolls his eyes. “You know you didn’t,” he says.  
  
“Being a god’s tough work, little bro,” Gabriel says. “Don’t ever let anyone tell you different.”  
  
Dean looks like he wants to punch both of them, now, which is just fine since Castiel can relate. He matches Dean’s glare with one of his own and Gabriel takes the opportunity to clap his hands and rub his palms together.  
  
“I’ve got a much quicker way to get there,” he says before adding, “Where are we going, again?”

  
  
Bobby Singer's place is both foreign and familiar to Castiel. Although he's never been here physically, he remembers its dimensions and its solidity, the fierce, fortress-like feel of the place. There's a little bit of cognitive dissonance that Cas is slowly becoming accustomed to when he steps inside; he recognizes some things from when he was still a member of the Host, watching over an extraordinary pair of children even though they weren’t his to guard.  
  
He's never actually seen these stacks of books or that chair before with a pair of eyes, borrowed or otherwise, but he still has vague impressions of them left on his memory. And then there’s the couch where Sam Winchester made his first prayer, the words of which Castiel’s had memorized ever since. That is an object he remembers clearly but he doesn’t know what it feels like to sit on and it takes him a moment to orient himself when he thinks about it.  
  
It’ s no mystery why he feels such a strong affinity for these walls and dusty rooms; it was the first place he ever saw Sam's soul, a twinkling gleam outstretched in search of something and catching Castiel’s attention in the process. Possibly even more important than that, it’s where Castiel found Dean again after years of casual bedtime prayers had trailed off into complete silence.  
  
Thinking on it now, Castiel can't help but consider this a starting point of sorts because although Dean's fumbling, rote Our Fathers first drew Castiel to him years before Sam ever murmured a hesitant _dear God_ , he never would have given up everything for them if he hadn't found them here that night.  
  
A hard nudge in the back from Gabriel draws Castiel out of his thoughts and back to the present. Bobby's been staring at the two of them for the last five minutes and they've already been through a series of tests that were only a minor irritant to Gabriel but have left Castiel dripping holy water and blood on the floor.  
  
"What, are you waiting for one of us to do a trick or something?" Gabriel finally asks.  
  
Bobby just raises his eyebrows at the caustic tone and says, "Maybe."  
  
And Gabriel looks tempted. At this point, Castiel almost doesn't care if the archangel does decide a little display of power's in order. Dean and Ruby lurk just over Bobby's shoulder, neither of them speaking up. It makes sense for Dean who still only sees Jimmy when he looks at Castiel, who may only ever see that, and who hasn't quite let go of his reluctance to believe in angels. Castiel wouldn't have expected Ruby to stand up for them, but she recognizes Gabriel for what he is. They don't need her to do them any favors, but having her confirm that yes, angels do exist and yes, you are in the presence of one would be helpful. Instead she just looks amused and Castiel can't help but be a little resentful about that or about the fact that she doesn't seem to have left Dean's side at all in the last few days.  
  
"You know, all you had to do was _ask_ ," Gabriel says.  
  
Castiel glances sideways at him and shakes his head. "That's really not-"  
  
"Don't worry, bro," Gabriel says with one of his more wicked grins. "Restraint is my middle name."  
  
"That’s not even a little bit true," Castiel says but Gabriel ignores him.  
  
In the grand scheme of things – those things being any of the multitude of actions Gabriel could take – the one he chooses _is_ a show of restraint. To an extent, anyway.  
  
A heavy clap of thunder shakes the house down to its very foundations and then the room is plunged into darkness too pervasive to be entirely natural. Castiel blinks against his sudden lack of sight, his breath quiet in the pause Gabriel takes before unfurling his wings.  
  
It's been centuries since Castiel's seen them but they're as grand as he remembers. Incandescent spears of light pierce the blackness of the room and form the upper-ridge of the wings, extending in a massive span that's still only a fraction of the reality of them. Bright, sparkling threads lace together and weave the feathers out of nothing, pulling them from one dimension into this one.  
  
Castiel watches, rapt, and feels some distant echo of loss when he thinks of his own wings. They could never be as glorious as Gabriel's; being a soldier meant Castiel and those like him were beings of distinct purpose and little comparative aesthetic quality, but they were still a part of him. The only part that he misses if he's honest.  
  
The outline of Gabriel's wings is bright enough to cast the dumbstruck look on Bobby's face into sharp relief and Castiel chances a glance at Dean who looks just as gobsmacked. Castiel can't help but feel a thrill of vindication at the sight; Dean may not want to believe but how can he not when faced with near-tangible proof?  
  
Gabriel's glow pulses once, bright enough to make Castiel slam his eyes shut instinctively; when he opens them again, Gabriel's wings are completely formed. Unlike some of the other angels, particularly those whose sole purpose is to strike awe into the hearts of humans, Gabriel's wings aren't terrifying to look at but they are beautiful. They give off a soft kind of light, the feathers so white they almost hurt to look at. They're gigantic and full, taking up most of the available free space in the room.  
  
The tip of one tickles the back of Castiel's neck, the playful movement hidden from the others. Castiel reaches up to brush Gabriel away and feels a zap of warmth at the touch that eases every last bit of tension from Castiel's body and floods him with peace. That, he has to admit, is a pretty neat trick.  
  
When Bobby and Dean don't utter a word, Gabriel flaps his wings once; it’s just enough to ruffle everyone's hair and give off the heavy, unmistakable sound of millions of moving feathers, before he tucks them in close to his body and, with another clap of thunder, vanishes them and brings the lights back up.  
  
Both Bobby and Dean stare with wide eyes while Ruby's found a corner to stand in, her arms crossed and her eyes averted. Ally or not, Castiel knows that demons are more terrified of angels than they like to let on. It's probably good to remind her of just who she's dealing with; this way she'll think twice about trying to betray them.  
  
"Close your mouth, Dean-o," Gabriel says.  
  
Dean's jaw clicks closed and he glances wildly from Gabriel to Castiel and back again before running a hand through his short hair.  
  
"Holy shit," he mutters.  
  
Gabriel shrugs, all false modesty, and says, "That's nothing. You should see the kind of show I can put on when I actually _try_."  
  
"Huh," Bobby mutters, looking at Gabriel like he can still see the wings sprouting out of his back. "I'm gonna need a drink. And then you," he adds, whirling on Dean, "are gonna have approximately a shitload of explaining to do."  
  
They get settled in fairly quickly, everyone grabbing a comfortable spot while Bobby pours himself a glass of whiskey.  
  
"I'm guessin' angels don't have much use for this stuff," he says.  
  
"You guess wrong," Gabriel tells him, snatching the bottle out of his hands and taking a swig.  
  
Of all the members of the Host that Castiel expected to be embarrassed by due to a severe lack of social graces, Gabriel would've been the last one. Then again, being the Trickster for all that time wouldn't have bred _manners_ and it's not like there's much use for them where they come from anyway.  
  
"The hell's wrong with you?" Bobby demands, reaching out to grab the bottle back.  
  
"I was raised by wolves," Gabriel says.  
  
Castiel rolls his eyes and they wait while Bobby downs his drink and then gives it a quick refill before passing the bottle back over to Gabriel along with an empty glass of his own.  
  
"All right," Bobby says. "Talk."  
  
All eyes in the room swing to Dean. He stands near the back of the room looking restless and tense and shifts on his feet under everyone's collective gaze.  
  
"Yellow-Eyes tracked us to The Roadhouse," he says, eyes finding a point on the opposite wall and sticking there while he explains the rest of what happened.  
  
It's obvious to Castiel that Dean's being deliberately vague as he tells them about how they never even got to see the Colt before they were cornered and kidnapped by demons. He glosses over the part where he was shot and doesn't give any details about his time in captivity. A quick glance around the room tells Castiel he's not the only one who thinks Dean might be hiding something. Bobby's features are twisted into disbelief beneath his beard and he stares at Dean incredulously.  
  
"And you just happened to escape?" he asks.  
  
Dean shrugs, his lips quirking up into a weak parody of his usual cocky smile. "What can I say? When you've got it, you've got it."  
  
"Right," Bobby drawls. "So what aren't you telling me, boy? Because it's written all over your face that you haven't told the whole truth yet."  
  
It's quiet for a moment as Dean gnaws on the inside of his cheek and seems to debate what to tell them. Castiel can feel Gabriel bristle next to him, clearly impatient, but he doesn't say anything. Eventually Dean blows out a sigh and his shoulders slump.  
  
"The demon, Azazel . . . he told me something," Dean says.  
  
The words are mostly mumbled and directed toward his feet but they all hear them well enough.  
  
"Demons lie, Dean. I shouldn't have to explain that one to you again," Bobby says, shooting a significant look over at Ruby who just glares back.  
  
"No," Dean says, lifting his eyes and somehow finding Castiel's from across the room. "Not this time."  
  
Castiel sucks in a breath and Dean scrubs a hand through his hair before he finally blurts it out. "Sam's alive and I have to find him."  
  


  


  
They leave the next morning, most of Dean's reluctance to let Gabriel and Castiel tag along melting away when Gabriel looks him in the eye and says there isn't a demon on the planet that wouldn't take one look at him and spill its unholy guts. Since their plan to find Sam Winchester mostly involves tracking down demons and interrogating them until they get the information they need, the fear Gabriel inspires in the creatures has made him invaluable. Dean's still not talking to Castiel but the benefit of that is not being told to stay behind.  
  
Not that Castiel would have listened if Dean had taken the time to push the issue. He belongs with Dean, wherever that may end up taking him. Whether or not Dean ever realizes that doesn't matter. Castiel knows and that's enough.  
  
Bobby's still on the phone, giving Ellen a quick rundown of what happened and warning her to keep quiet about the Colt, just like Dean asked him to. Dean and Ruby have been going back and forth from the house to the Impala for the last fifteen minutes, double-checking that they have everything they need. Gabriel's already blessed some bottles of water and Castiel's been copying down some of the stronger exorcisms he knows for lack of anything else to do.  
  
As soon as Bobby hangs up, Dean wanders into the room. He barely spares Castiel a glance before turning to the older man.  
  
"You sure you don't want to come along?" he asks.  
  
Bobby just raises his eyebrows. "You've got a full car already," he says. "Besides, ain't much I can do that an archangel can't. I'll hold down the fort here, keep in touch with Ellen, see if I can dig anything up on Sam."  
  
Dean nods. "We'll be checking in."  
  
"You'd better. Because if you don't I'm just gonna have to assume that Yellow-Eyed son of a bitch got your ass for good this time."  
  
There's a flash of pain in Dean's eyes that he quickly masks with a wink and a snapped off salute. He glances at Castiel again, quick and fleeting, and then turns to leave. Castiel pushes out of his chair, gripping the notebook Bobby had given him and swallowing down the uncomfortable combination of hurt and concern that's formed a lump in his throat.  
  
"Hey," Bobby says, stopping Castiel before he can leave.  
  
Castiel turns, surprised to see Bobby staring at him with eyes that are close to soft in understanding. "I know he can be as stubborn as an ass. He's just like his dad that way. But keep an eye on him."  
  
That actually brings a smile to Castiel's face, small though it may be. "I always do."  
  
Bobby nods once and Castiel jumps when he hears the Impala roar to life. He jogs out of the house and doesn't waste any time throwing himself into the backseat of the car, settling in next to Gabriel. It's ridiculous but despite everything, being back in the Impala is comforting somehow. It's a little bittersweet, reminds Castiel too much of all the other times he's been here, but there's still a sense of homecoming to it.  
  
He settles back against the seat and closes his eyes, trying not to think too hard about what's waiting for them on the road ahead.  
  
  


  


  
Gabriel lasts an hour before he gets sick of what he calls the "inexorable slowness of human travel" and disappears off to no one's quite sure where. Probably a beach somewhere with very scantily clad women, knowing him. If everything wasn't so tense and screwed up, Castiel would probably find something amusing about that. After all, Gabriel was many things as a member of the Host, but licentious wasn't one of them.  
  
It's the kind of detail Castiel stupidly wishes he could share with Dean the same way they always used to share everything between them. Castiel wants to tell Dean everything, wants to start at the very beginning and share all of those bits and pieces that still haven't slotted into place yet. There's something inside of Castiel, something still purely Jimmy, that feels like maybe all of his disparate pieces will finally fit if he can just let Dean see them, puzzle over them with him, help make sense of them. But that won't be possible until Dean lets Castiel in, and Dean won't do that until he believes.  
  
For all that Gabriel's show of power made it clear exactly what _he_ is, Castiel doesn't have those kinds of tricks up his sleeve. He can't just . . . teleport himself somewhere else. His wings are gone, wrapped up inside the grace he lost all those years ago. All he has is an unending plethora of knowledge that's completely useless to someone like Dean. Besides, even if Castiel rattled off the more obscure facts he has stored up in his practically ageless brain, it's not as if Dean wouldn't write that off as Jimmy being a nerd to try and prove a point that he doesn't want proven.  
  
It's frustrating. _Dean_ is frustrating although that's nothing new. Obnoxious, obviously, but it doesn't come as a surprise.  
  
With Gabriel gone, there's no one for Castiel to talk to. Ruby's a stranger and not the kind of company he wants to be keeping anyway and as much as Castiel would like to push until Dean gives in and talks to him, he doesn't feel like doing that with a demon riding shotgun. So he settles in the backseat, leans his head against the window, and watches their non-descript surroundings fly past in a blur of cornstalks and treetops. Dean's got music cranked up, the usual classic rock that he taught Castiel to love. It's another source of comfort along with the familiar smell of the Impala's interior and the soothing purr of her engine.  
  
There's still plenty wrong with this not-quite-familiar picture, though. Castiel's never spent much time in the backseat and seeing Ruby in Jimmy's spot makes something possessive spark deep in his chest. It's a silly thing to get upset over but Castiel can't just get rid of the feeling. It doesn't help that the last time he was back here, Dean was with him and the only tension between them was the kind that involved the clumsy thrust of their hips and hot, wet kisses that left them both breathless. Without Gabriel around to provide a distraction, Castiel's left to keep his eyes trained on the world outside so he doesn't glance sideways and find himself picturing Dean stretched out across the leather of the seat, shirtless and damp with sweat and beautiful.  
  
Castiel can feel his cheeks heat up at the memory and blows out a sigh, leaning his head back and squeezing his eyes shut to try and blot out the memory.  
  
When he opens them again, he catches Dean's eyes in the rearview mirror. Dean looks away quickly but Castiel doesn't think he just imagined the brief flare of heat in the other man's gaze.  
  
  


  


  
Despite being determined to drive on non-stop until they track a demon or Sam, whichever comes first, Dean eventually has to admit a fifteen minute defeat. He pulls into a gas station attached to a 24-hour convenience store sometime after midnight. The beams of light in the lot are disturbingly bright after hours spent on the barely-lit backroads they've been traveling all night.  
  
Castiel shakes himself out of the half-doze he'd fallen into and piles out of the Impala along with everyone else. His legs appreciate the stretch, blood making a pleasant rush from his hips down to his toes. He stretches his arms over his head with a sigh, the knobs of his spine popping giving an audible and satisfying pop.  
  
"You done?" Dean asks when Castiel finally relaxes his arms to his sides.  
  
They're the first words Dean's spoken to him in a while and while they're obviously not _happy_ ones, Castiel's almost willing to take what he can get.  
  
"For now," Castiel says, just to be contrary.  
  
Dean's lips tighten but he nods his head toward the convenience store. "Ruby's gonna fill her up. You need to take a piss or grab food, now's the time."  
  
He stomps off in the direction of the double-doors without waiting. Castiel rolls his eyes but follows, ducking his head to hide a smile when Dean pauses long enough to hold the door for him. Inside smells like an unpleasant mix of burnt coffee, bleach, and the faint tang of gasoline. The overhead lights hum like summer cicadas, the sound an incessant buzz hovering just beneath the country songs playing on a late-night loop over the radio.  
  
It's a scene that must be familiar to Dean but Castiel finds it oddly unnerving and picks his way through the aisles to get to the bathroom with his nose wrinkled and his hands stuffed in his pockets.  
  
The bathroom itself is about as disgusting as can be expected and Castiel's careful not to touch anything without a barrier or paper towels between his skin and questionable surfaces. At least the water that trickles out of the faucet is clean and Castiel’s content to be able to splash his face with it. The water's too tepid to chase away the exhaustion he can feel tugging at his body, but it's refreshing enough and he steps out of the bathroom feeling marginally better than he did when he walked in.  
  
There's no sign of Dean inside and while Castiel's pretty sure Dean wouldn't leave without him, an urgent pulse of worry sends him heading straight for the door.  
  
He catches sight of the Impala outside when he rounds an aisle of snack food seconds before his head's seized in a tight grip of pain. He can feel it pierce him like spikes have been driven through both eyes, another pounded through one temple and out the other. It takes him a second to realize what it is since the voices all but disappeared once Gabriel found him.  
  
They're back now, a cacophonous wave of sound that doesn't make a single bit of sense. Castiel falls to his knees, hands clamped over his ears, and tries so hard to fight it that he can feel a trickle of blood slide from his nostril to pool in the dip of his upper lip.  
  
There's a shout from the angels, something violently triumphant that beats at Castiel’s brain, and then the noise recedes as quickly as it came.  
  
Castiel inhales so quickly he almost chokes on it and falls forward, hands slamming against the linoleum floor while he tries to catch his breath. He barely registers the soft patter of footsteps as the middle-aged clerk makes his way over to check on him. Even the man's words sound like they're being whispered through a funnel.  
  
"What the fuck, man? If you're gonna puke, do it in the fuckin' bathroom."  
  
"Get out," Castiel says.  
  
"What?"  
  
Castiel lifts his head, heart in his throat. "Get out _now_ ," he yells.  
  
The clerk's face pulls tight in confusion and anger but any response he might have made is interrupted by a shower of sparks as the overhead lights explode. Castiel glances around wildly and nearly misses it when the clerk's body is picked up and flung across the room, crashing through several displays before hitting the wall with a harsh thud.  
  
The only lights left are from those still lit outside and the chalky glow coming from the glass refrigerators at the back of the store. Castiel tries to edge his way back there without being seen but he knows it's a lost cause.  
  
"Now, this is just pathetic," a rough voice says as a man appears to block the way.  
  
Castiel halts his movement and pushes up onto his knees, gazing up the tall, broad length of an unfamiliar body. The man's skin is dark, his features imposing beneath their twist of disgust. He could be anyone but Castiel sees beyond the vessel, recognizes the amorphous shape within. It would be impossible not to remember someone he fought alongside for so long.  
  
"Uriel," Castiel says.  
  
"It's true, then," Uriel says. "You're not just any human are you?"  
  
"You wouldn't have left me alone even if I was," Castiel says.  
  
Uriel just stares at him, his expression caught somewhere between pity and distaste, now. It's not exactly a surprise to have been caught by an angel from the garrison; Castiel knew that they'd probably be after him if they ever figured out what had happened. It's not even shocking that they'd send Uriel, especially knowing how closely he and Castiel once worked together. Uriel's hatred for humans was once renowned in the Host, something that probably hasn't changed; it's poetic justice that he's the one here to retrieve an errant, grace-less angel-turned-man.  
  
What they want with him is anyone's guess, but Castiel's fairly sure his life will be cut drastically short if Uriel and the others have their way. Castiel turns his head to glance outside but the shock of pain that accompanies Uriel's suckerpunch pulls Castiel's attention back to the angel. And when he opens his mouth to send out a prayer for Gabriel, Uriel reaches down and clamps a hand over his mouth.  
  
"I can't let you do that," he says. "I've got my orders. You remember orders, don't you Castiel? You used to be so good at following them."  
  
Castiel tries to jerk his head away but Uriel holds him fast, his fingers all but grinding the bones of Castiel's jaw together in their tight grip.  
  
"You never should have disobeyed," Uriel says. "On the other hand, being the one to track you down and eliminate the problem you've become should earn me a few useful brownie points."  
  
His eyes bore into Castiel's and glint with cold satisfaction; it’s enough to confirm Castiel's suspicions that the angels want him dead. Even if the rest of them don't, this one clearly does and that means Castiel's going to have to hope Uriel's arrogance gives him enough time to find a way to escape. He won't be able to go anywhere if Uriel doesn't release him, though, and the angel doesn't seem like he wants to let go just yet. Castiel pulls at Uriel's hold again but it's useless.  
  
"Just look at yourself, brother," Uriel says. "You're _weak_. You stink of mortality. You're nothing, now."  
  
There's an affected pity in his voice but Castiel knows how fake it must be. Uriel's never felt anything even closely resembling an emotion or feeling that didn't edge on hubris. He was slow to anger, settling instead for a righteous indignation that always seemed to justify any action he thought he had to take. There's not anything soft or merciful about him; there never has been. Castiel glares and scrabbles one hand behind himself, groping along the bottom of the nearest shelf for anything that might help. Uriel glances over Castiel's shoulder and makes a tsking sound.  
  
"You're going to fight me on this? What can you even do, Castiel?"  
  
Uriel finally removes his hand but it's to pull his arm back, huge hand folding into a meaty fist. Castiel shoves himself backward just as Uriel takes a swing, the momentum enough to propel his body a few feet across the linoleum floor. Uriel's errant punch knocks the entire display over with a crash and Castiel's still crab-walking backward when he hears a shout.  
  
"Hey! Fuckface!"  
  
Uriel takes the bait and turns to look for the source of the yell. It's the only opening Castiel's going to get and he lurches to his feet and sprints around the wreckage of the fallen displays just as a loud shot rings out through the small store. Castiel ducks behind the last standing aisle and crawls quickly toward the drinks lined up behind their glass doors.  
  
"Dean Winchester," Uriel says somewhere behind him. "This has nothing to do with you."  
  
"See, that's where you're wrong," Dean says. "You're after my friend. I think that has everything to do with me."  
  
Uriel's laugh sends a chill down Castiel's spine but he forces himself to keep moving, eyes peeled for what he needs.  
  
"Friend, huh?" Uriel repeats. "Did you hear that, Castiel? Dean Winchester thinks you two are friends."  
  
Dean gives an aborted shout that chokes off into a gurgle of sound and the gun clatters to the floor. Castiel finally sees what he's looking for and edges the door opening, stretching his arm up until his fingers close around the cold glass neck of a bottle.  
  
"Let me tell you something about my brother," Uriel says. "He was a good angel. A good _soldier_. And then he found you Winchesters and started to develop all of these _feelings_. He gave up the glory of Heaven and the Host for you and when he dies? Well, that will be your fault, too. Now tell me, does that sound like something one friend would let another friend do for him? Because from where I stand you're nothing but a selfish, arrogant-"  
  
Castiel grips the bottle tight and slams the body against the floor. It shatters with an explosive sound that cuts Uriel off mid-monologue. Thick shards of glass fly in all directions but Castiel doesn't pay any attention to them. He hefts what's left of the bottle and digs the sharp point of one jagged edge into the flesh of his arm. Pain bites at him, as hot and thick as the blood that bubbles up through the length of the wound. Castiel tosses the bottle aside just as Uriel moves to stand right in front of him.  
  
"You are a pain in my ass," he growls.  
  
Castiel just grits his teeth and swipes his fingers through the blood. He doesn't have to look down as he paints a familiar and forbidden sigil into the ground next to him, but there's no real way to hide what he's doing, either.  
  
"You don't actually think that's going to work, do you?" Uriel asks.  
  
"I'm hopeful," Castiel says.  
  
Uriel takes a step forward but his progress is halted when Dean takes another shot from the other end of the aisle. The shotgun blast is only enough to make Uriel pause and his features go tight with what looks like real anger, the kind that kills. Uriel waves a hand at Dean, shoving his body up against the wall and holding him there. Castiel can see Dean strain against the invisible binds keeping him immobile out of the corner of his eye, but he can't turn to look. This time when Uriel draws his arm back, he takes his punch quickly and catches Castiel across the side of the face, splitting his lip wide open and adding another layer of pain to his already swollen eye and the split skin of his forearm.  
  
"I'll kill you slowly," Uriel says, pulling his arm back again. "And I'll make your little pet ape _watch_."  
  
"Jimmy!" Dean yells and then, " _Cas_!"  
  
Castiel's fingers finish painting the sigil and he slaps a hand down in the center of it. A stray piece of glass digs into his palm but Castiel barely notices, just feels a surge of power course through his body as Uriel's form flickers and then vanishes with a burst of light and energy. Dean falls to the ground with a rustle of fabric and a soft thud; Castiel can hear him as he jogs over, his boots a heavy, plodding sound in the sudden quiet of the store.  
  
"Holy shit," Dean mutters.  
  
He squats next to Castiel, careful of the glass and blood, and reaches out to rest his fingers against Castiel's cheek. The touch is easy and unselfconscious and all of the breath shudders out of Castiel's lungs in a rush.  
  
"He'll be back," he says, too hopped up on residual fear and adrenaline to keep from leaning into Dean's hand just a little. "We have to get out of here now."  
  
"Yeah," Dean says. "Yeah, okay. Fuck, you're bleeding everywhere."  
  
Castiel glances down at his arm which is an aching, throbbing mess, and his opposite hand which bleeds sluggishly around the edges of the piece of glass embedded there. Dean follows his gaze and bites out another curse before reaching down to grip the piece of glass by its smooth, clean sides.  
  
"This is gonna hurt," he warns.  
  
The words startle a laugh out of Castiel; _everything_ hurts, he's not sure he'll even notice at this point. The sting that accompanies Dean's tug on the glass is negligible compared to everything else, but it still makes Castiel wince. Dean tosses the piece of glass aside and then hurries to shrug out of his overshirt.  
  
"Tell me again why you had to slice yourself open?" he asks.  
  
"Banishing sigil," Castiel says and then, "Dean."  
  
Dean ignores him and finishes pulling his t-shirt over his head. He tears into the fabric as Castiel watches, ripping until he has several long, wide strips in his hands. They're both quiet as Dean pulls Castiel's arm to him and gets a makeshift bandage wrapped around the wound. He gets the first tied and then reaches for Castiel’s hand and does the same.  
  
"You called me Cas."  
  
Dean ties the last bandage off into a neat little knot and shrugs.  
  
"That’s your name, isn’t it?"  
  
He doesn't look up which is well enough because Castiel knows he can't hide the goofy smile that spreads across his face in spite of the pain. They get to their feet and hobble out of the store, picking their way through the remains of various snack foods. Ruby's waiting outside when they get back, an easy grin on her face that belies the fear Castiel can see lurking in her eyes.  
  
"Looked like you had it under control," she says.  
  
Dean glares at her but doesn't press the issue, just tosses her the keys and follows Castiel into the backseat.  
  
  


  


  
  
They stop a few miles out just long enough for Dean to grab a t-shirt and what he calls a "hunter's first aid kit" from the duffle in the trunk. Castiel's woozy from blood loss and the sudden ebb of adrenaline, but he still manages to hold the flashlight steady while Dean unwraps the bandage around his arm and eyes the wound.  
  
"Keep her steady," Dean tells Ruby.  
  
"Yeah, yeah," she says, but Castiel can see her hands move to the standard ten-and-two position on the wheel.  
  
When Dean speaks again, his voice is lower and more intimate, clearly meant for Castiel's ears alone. "So, this is gonna sting like a bitch. And that's an understatement."  
  
Castiel nods and blinks at the bottle that Dean holds out. Considering everything, it's not like Castiel's afraid of a little alcohol but it's still weird to be drinking and especially in front of Dean. He takes a swig, recoiling at the burn as it goes down, and then another when Dean gives him a meaningful look. Dean takes the bottle back as Castiel swallows his second mouthful and holds Castiel's arm steady over the bloody shirt. It's unexpected when he pours the alcohol over the wound and Castiel chokes out a pained sound, head falling back to thump against the back of the seat.  
  
Dean murmurs an apology but it only gets worse from there and Castiel finds himself reaching for the bottle again as Dean starts to sew him up, slow and careful.  
  
"Nuh-uh," Dean says, shifting the bottle away. "You're bleeding enough as it is."  
  
So Castiel bites down on his lip and keeps his eyes squeezed shut.  
  
"You're gonna have a badass scar here," Dean says when he's almost done. "Careful or you'll start to look like one of us."  
  
"There are worse things," Castiel says through gritted teeth.  
  
Dean just huffs out a laugh.  
  
The task is done and Castiel's feeling a weird mix of light-headed and heavy-limbed when Gabriel appears in the front seat which clearly scares the shit out of Dean.  
  
"Houston, we have a problem," Gabriel says.  
  
"Yeah, we do," Dean all but yells. "The fuck, man? Can't you get in touch with us like a normal person?"  
  
"No," Gabriel answers succinctly. "Now shut up, I'm serious. And what the hell happened to you?"  
  
Castiel shrugs. "Uriel."  
  
Gabriel's expression darkens and he utters a heartfelt, " _Fuck_."  
  
"Focus," Ruby says, snapping her fingers to get Gabriel's attention. "He's fine. Now what's the problem?"  
  
"Castiel's the most popular girl in the class, that's the problem," Gabriel says. "Uriel's not the only one after him. Someone put out the APB on one Jimmy Novak, angel whisperer, and now everyone wants to get their hands on him."  
  
"Like who?" Dean asks.  
  
"Angels, demons, hunters, the whole damn trifecta."  
  
Dean glances at Castiel and then asks, "Why hunters?"  
  
"You're telling me if you heard about a guy who could talk to angels you wouldn't want to check it out?" Gabriel responds.  
  
There's no answer for that other than the obvious but Dean doesn't look happy about it. He keeps stealing little looks at Castiel like he's seeing the other man for the first time. It would be unnerving if Castiel didn't feel like it was important, like Dean's maybe starting to realize that having Castiel around doesn't mean losing Jimmy. If nothing else, Dean seems to care, now.  
  
"So what now?" Ruby asks.  
  
Castiel already knows Dean, figures he'll want to find some way to take care of the situation. But that'll take too much time. Castiel may be able to evade hunters and hide from demons, but the angels will find him eventually and if they don't, someone else will. They have to track down Sam and get the Colt from Ellen to put an end to Azazel and figure out the next step. There's just no time for Castiel to run and, frankly, he doesn't want to.  
  
"We keep looking for Sam," Castiel says.  
  
Dean swings his head around to stare at him and Castiel offers him a weak but genuine smile. For a long moment Dean doesn't say a word and he doesn't move. When he finally does react, it's to reach out and brush his fingers over Castiel's. The touch is brief but Castiel feels it down to the very core of him, warming up something that's been frozen over and aching for years.  
  
"Fine," Gabriel says from the front, sounding resigned and displeased. "Let's bag us a demon."  



	18. Act Two - Chapter Sixteen

 

Riding several hours nonstop in a car with crude stitches in his arm, a black eye, and a hand that screams in protest every time his fingers so much as twitch is pure torture. The only thing that makes it worthwhile is that Dean stays with him; he's there when Castiel eventually drifts off to sleep and he doesn't seem to mind that, at some point during the night, Castiel ends up stretched out with his head pillowed on Dean's lap, careful even in sleep to avoid hurting Dean’s wounded leg.

The sun's just breaching the horizon when they stop for breakfast at a roadside diner and settle into a booth with newspapers spread out across the sticky tabletop.

Castiel feels groggy and aches in too many ways to count. He can't help but glare at Ruby and Gabriel, both of whom would already have healed themselves by now and who can sit for hours at a time without losing the feeling in their toes. Dean's off calling Ellen when the waitress comes by and takes their order; Castiel doesn't even realized he's rattled off Dean's usual until she's gone and Gabriel and Ruby both turn to stare at him with raised eyebrows.

"What?" Castiel asks.

"I begged and begged for a little sister," is all Gabriel says.

Ruby just snorts and narrows her eyes in an enigmatic look. "No wonder he's so hung up on you," she says.

Castiel blinks and opens his mouth to ask what she means by that, but Dean chooses that moment to wander back over. He slides in next to Castiel and can't seem to decide whether or not he wants to keep some space between them. In the end he settles for sitting with this legs sprawled a little, his knee knocking against Castiel's under the table and resting there. That small bit of contact is enough to make Castiel flush and he tries to hide it by taking a very long sip of water.

"Find anything?" Ruby asks.

"Some demon activity out her way," Dean says. "I vote we head that direction. We're not that far out."

For all the time they've spent on the road, Dean's been careful to keep them within shouting distance of Bobby and, apparently, The Roadhouse. Castiel thinks he's not the only one wondering why, but if Ellen really does have the Colt that's a good enough reason to wait until they get word on Sam before dragging themselves across the country. A wild goose chase would only be a really stupid idea at this point.

"Awesome," Ruby mutters just as Gabriel grins and says, "Bingo!"

They all look over at him and he taps his finger on the story he's found in the paper.

"Demonic omens aplenty," he says.

Dean slides the paper over and gives the article a quick glance-over.

"It's on the way," he says. "We might as well see if we can find anything."

They formulate a plan while they wait for their food, one that mostly seems to revolve around Gabriel threatening to smite the sons of bitches until they squeal. If that doesn't work, Ruby says she'd be glad to do a little poking and prodding. Castiel's expected to stay out of trouble for the most part. Ordinarily he'd be annoyed by being given nothing to do, but considering how useless he feels at the moment he doesn't even want to argue the point.

Their waitress comes back with their orders a little while later, setting all the plates down in front of them before wandering off to fetch extra syrup for Gabriel and hot sauce for Ruby. Dean just stares down at his food, the same breakfast Castiel remembers him ordering all the time back home.

"Who ordered for me?" he asks, sounding confused.

"That would be the loser sitting next to you," Gabriel says around a mouth full of chocolate chip pancakes.

Dean glances sideways. Castiel shrugs and shoves a forkful of scrambled eggs into his mouth. Under the table, Dean nudges Castiel's knee with his own. Castiel smiles and nudges back.

They're on the road again within the hour and haul ass through the Midwest until they reach a small town in Oklahoma called Mercury. It seems normal enough but Dean assures him they always do.

"It's like the law of 'It's Quiet, Too Quiet'," he says as they drive down the winding streets of what looks like your standard slice of American suburbia. "The more normal a place looks, the more fucked up the monsters it hides."

"Wow, Dean," Ruby says with a smirk. "That was almost poetic."

"Shut up and keep your eyes peeled for friends of yours."

Ruby makes a face that tells them all exactly what she thinks of said friends but obligingly turns her gaze to the handful of people walking down the street. It's mostly middle-aged men and women, some with children but most of them alone.

Castiel watches them walk past, caught up in thinking about how strange it is that none of them have any idea what must be lurking in amongst them. He's so distracted he almost misses it at first; it's just a flash out of the corner of his eye but it grabs his attention and he turns to get a closer look.

"There," he says, breaking into the quiet of the car.

Everyone turns to look at the figure Castiel's pointed out. He's young, around Dean's age maybe, with messy red hair and baggy clothes. He could almost be a regular, if shabby-looking, guy except Castiel sees right through the vessel to the demon twisting and writhing beneath.

"The kid?" Dean asks.

"Yes," Castiel, Ruby, and Gabriel say in unison.

Dean pauses. "Well, that was creepy."

Ruby reaches out and smacks the back of his head. "Don't lose him."

They track the demon a few blocks, though Castiel isn't sure how inconspicuous four people in a car like this can be. The demon eventually ducks into an apartment building that looks way too run-down for a town like this, leaving them to ponder their options.

"Trap?" Dean asks.

"Definitely," Ruby says.

"Sounds fun," Gabriel says.

Dean glances at Castiel in the rearview mirror. Castiel can only roll his eyes.

"Just don't get us killed, okay?"

Dean grins at him. "No promises," he says before parking at the curb.

 

  
  
 

  
An apartment full of demons is no match for an archangel and a demon-killing knife. There are five of them, all of whom lapse into enough of a panic at the sight of Gabriel that killing the first four is no problem and trapping the fifth doesn't take much work.

While Gabriel and Ruby work, so do Castiel and Dean, drawing up a quick devil's trap that locks the last demon into place when they manage to lure him over. It's the same one they saw on the street; up close the demon's vessel looks even stranger than before. Freckles and a sweet, dopey-looking face are stretched tight over the evil contained within, pulling those features into a malevolent expression.

"Congratulations," he says. "You caught me."

"It wasn't even that hard," Ruby says, sounding vaguely disappointed.

"Who said it was supposed to be?" the demon shoots back.

"See," Dean cuts in, "I'd almost buy that. But this ain't our first rodeo. We've been trapped by demons before and I've gotta tell you, they were all way tougher than you dumb little shits."

The demon growls and charges Dean but stops short at the edge of the trap. He lets out a frustrated yell but steps back, resigned to being held fast at least for the time being.

"So here's what's gonna happen," Dean continues. "I've got some questions for you. And my friend Gabriel, here? If you don't want him to smite the everloving fuck out of you, you're gonna answer."

The demon just laughs, a harsh spike of sound that makes Castiel's stomach clench up in response.

"Fuck you," he spits. "You really think I'm gonna tell you anything?"

"I'm hoping you don't," Ruby says, twirling her knife between her fingers and leveling the demon with a gold glare. "Because when you refuse to talk, I get to take a crack at you."

For a moment the demon just stares and then he nods. "Fine."

"Sam Winchester," Dean says.

That prompts another laugh, this one longer and heartier than the last.

"So it wasn't bullshit, was it Dean?" he says. "They told me what you did but I didn't think anyone could possibly be so _stupid_."

"Shut the fuck up and tell me what you know."

The demon meets Dean's eyes and smiles. The quirk of his lips is sharp and empty of any real emotion, the sight of it chilling.

"You really want me to tell you about little Sam?" the demon asks. "Because I don't think you can handle the truth, you know? Knowing all about how your little brother's just like us, now. He's one of the family, Dean. He's ruthless. Fearless. It's fuckin' beautiful."

Castiel watches Dean's hands clench into fists and wants to reach out to make sure he doesn't do anything stupid. But Dean stands his ground, his eyes furious slits.

"Where is he?" he demands.

The demon shrugs. "Who knows? Rumor is he's off playing pretend with a couple of humans. Like he can just ignore how tainted he is and it'll all go away."

Dean frowns. "I don't believe you."

"I don't expect you to," the demon says, still grinning. "You're pretty but you're a little short on brains. You should've seen the wizard about that. Maybe then you wouldn't have sold your soul for someone who can't be saved." He lowers his voice to a hushed whisper and adds, "Your brother's gone, Dean. All the things he's done, all the things he's _gonna_ do? You can't save him from that. No one can. He's got a destiny to fulfill and you know what they say about fate."

"Yeah," Dean says, voice cold. He holds out his hand to Ruby who hands the knife over and then he lunges forward to drive the blade into the demon's belly. "She's a bitch."

The demon makes a low, gurgling sound and chokes as his body glows thick, veiny red-orange. They all watch as demon and vessel die, the body slumping forward onto the ground with a heavy thud. Ruby takes her knife back and wipes the blade off on the back of the kid's t-shirt.

“What he said about Sam. Is it true?” Dean’s voice is little more than a rumble in his chest, the words harsh and heavy in Castiel’s ears.

He shares a look with Gabriel, unsure of how to answer. He’s known ever since Dean said that Sam’s body has been brought back that there’s a chance he might not be . . . innocent, anymore. People don’t often wander around without their souls to guide them, but Castiel knows what it’s like to be without one. There’s no such thing as a moral compass, nothing to inform one’s choices from the inside out.

It’s hard to say what that means for an angel who developed an independent sense of right and wrong without a soul to call his own; Castiel wants to believe that maybe Sam is unique enough to have done the same.

“I don’t know,” Gabriel says, answering for the both of them.

“How can you not know?” Dean yells, whirling on him. “You’re supposed to be some kind of superior being but you’re fucking _useless_ -”

“Dean,” Castiel cuts in.

He steps between Dean and Gabriel when he feels a spike in the archangel’s energy, subtle but discernible in the way static electricity lifts the hairs on Castiel’s arms. Dean stares at him like he’s been betrayed and Castiel wants to shake the look of his face. What right does Dean have to look at him that way if what the demon said about _him_ is true?

It would be easy to turn the question around, to demand the truth once and for all. It would explain a lot if Dean did sell his soul. Suddenly everything would make a lot more sense. If it’s true, they need to know but Castiel’s too scared to say a word.

He doesn’t _want_ to know.

“Save it. We need to get the hell out of here _now_ ,” Ruby says.

There’s enough steel in her voice to get through to everyone. Someone will come to investigate sooner or later and with five bodies making a bloody mess of the apartment, they need to make themselves disappear. They’re careful as they leave – they have to make sure there aren’t any prints anywhere and keep moving as quickly as possible.

“Cameras?” Dean asks on their way out.

“Took care of it,” Gabriel says.

They’re quiet as they get into the Impala but the tension between all of them is thick with the things they haven’t said yet. Castiel keeps his eyes locked firmly on the world beyond his window and refuses to acknowledge Dean. Another fight is probably inevitable at this point, but Castiel doesn’t want to start it just yet and if Dean opens his big mouth and says something stupid, there might be blood.

No one says a word for several miles but once they’ve cleared the town, Gabriel declares he’s going to go be _useless_ elsewhere.

Castiel glances over at the seat beside him, but it’s already empty. The silence only gets more awkward from there. They drive on for a few more miles until Dean spits out a curse and pulls into a gas station.

“I have to call Bobby,” he says, but Castiel’s fairly sure that’s an excuse to get away from the thick, uncomfortable tension before he does something regrettable.

That’s pretty typical Dean all things considered.

He gets out of the car in jerky, furious movements and slams the door shut behind him. Ruby rolls her eyes.

“I’m hungry,” she says. “You coming?”

Castiel’s tempted but the night before is still fresh in his mind and he’d really rather not walk into another convenience store anytime soon. He shakes his head and Ruby shrugs and walks off without offering to get him anything.

The payphone’s a few feet from the entrance of the store next to two giant freezers advertising bags of ice. Castiel’s view of Dean is unobstructed but he keeps his back to the parking lot and his shoulders hunched like he’s trying to make the conversation as private as possible.

 _Tell me you didn't do it,_ Castiel thinks. _Please. Tell me you didn't._

The likelihood of the demon telling the truth is minimal, Castiel knows. But he’s also known from the start that Dean’s kept something important from all of them. When he thinks about it, pieces together all of the details that didn’t seem right before, it makes a horrible kind of sense. Why else would Azazel have told Dean about Sam if not to make a deal? And of course Dean would have said yes because all of the prophecies have already foretold it and because he’s an idiot with a martyr complex.

But Castiel had hoped to at least alter Fate’s plans for Dean. He’d assumed, wrongfully it seems, that his sacrifice had meant something. Now it’s entirely possible that everything’s going to happen the way Michael’s always wanted it to and Castiel is powerless to do anything about it.

He’s so lost in thought that he doesn’t notice the face in his window until there’s a sharp rap of knuckles against the side of the car. They’ve kept the windows rolled down, partly because of the heat but largely to inject some white noise into the pervasive silence. It’s not every day that some stranger comes up to lean into a car that’s not his, but Castiel wishes he could’ve anticipated this somehow and kept his window up.

“Can I help you?” Castiel asks, confused, irritated, and extremely uncomfortable with the whole situation.

The man is unfamiliar to Castiel – clearly human and, in any other situation, unassuming. His skin’s dark, his hair cut close to his head, and while his features aren’t exactly friendly, they don’t pose any immediate threat, either. In fact, he looks almost amiable, his eyebrows just slightly raised and the set of his mouth companionable even if he’s not smiling.

And then he speaks; the tone he uses is supposed to be easy and casual but there’s something lurking beneath the words, or maybe it’s just the words on their own, that makes Castiel’s stomach turn over.

“You Jimmy Novak?” he asks.

Castiel swallows hard and tries to keep his own voice from trembling. “I have no idea who that is.”

“Really?” the man asks, reaching into his pocket and pulling out a piece of paper. “Because you look just like him.”

The picture he holds up is a grainy, surveillance photo from the store last night and then he thumbs it aside to reveal another that must have been taken when Castiel was admitted to Cedar Points.

 _Hunter_ , Castiel thinks at about the same time he takes notice of the gun leveled at him.

It’s carefully concealed by the folds and sleeves of the man’s jacket, but Castiel’s meant to see it. It has the desired effect; his entire body goes cold and then prickly hot with fear.

“You’re not going to shoot me,” Castiel says.

The man cocks his head to the side and seems to consider this.

“Maybe not right away,” he says. “I’d like to know just what I’m dealing with first. But eventually I’ll have to kill you. Nothing personal, just business.”

“Business,” Castiel repeats in a flat voice, darting a glance over the man’s shoulder.

Dean’s walking back to the car, now; his eyes are narrowed in confusion but whatever he must see on Castiel’s face transforms his expression into pure, ice-cold anger.

“What I do, it saves lives,” the man says. “See, I protect people from all sorts of things. Scary, evil things. Things like you.”

Castiel opens his mouth to deny being anything like the kinds of things this man hunts but the look in the stranger’s eyes is enough to dry the words right up. Whoever he is, it’s chillingly clear that there’s no reasoning with him. Castiel’s seen righteous conviction before, knows that there is no wiggle room, no margin for error. This man is right and anyone with a different opinion is wrong. Based on the absolute lack of human feeling in his gaze, he’d probably just as soon kill someone for having a dissenting opinion as he would an inhuman creature.

“Man, you don’t know the kind of day I’ve had and if you don’t want me takin’ it out on you, you’d better walk away right the fuck now.”

Dean’s voice is as level as Castiel’s ever heard it, but there’s rage lurking in the depths of his tightly controlled tone. It would be enough to make anyone pause, but this man doesn’t even tense up. He has to feel Dean at his back, less than a foot away and inching closer, but if anything his posture loosens up.

“I know exactly what you’ve done with your day,” he says without turning around. “Been tailing you for a while. That was good work you did on those demons back there. In fact, I wouldn’t mind sitting down and comparing notes. But first you need to let me deal with this.”

The man never looks away from Castiel and the gun in his hand doesn’t waver. A sleek, new minivan pulls into the station and a couple of kids jump out and make a run for the convenience store but Castiel’s beginning to question whether or not this man even cares.

“He’s with me,” Dean says.

“I hate to have to tell you this, but he’s also not human. Just walk away. I’m not even asking you to get your hands dirty with this one.”

Castiel swallows with a dry, audible gulp and wishes desperately that he wasn’t so useless right now.

Dean stops, close enough that Castiel could reach out and grab him if the man wasn’t in the way, and says, “One more chance.”

The man finally straightens and turns his back. Being unable to see his face is somehow more unnerving than having those empty eyes on him, but Castiel can hear the informal tenor of his voice just fine.

“How’s your leg, kid?”

Before either of them can react, the man lashes out and kicks Dean right in his injured thigh. The accuracy of the blow is almost perfect and Dean lets out a soft cry before his bad leg gives out and he goes down hard on one knee. Castiel reaches for the handle to the door but the man spins quickly, gun out in the open now, cocked and aimed at the center of Castiel’s forehead.

“I _will_ shoot you if you make one more move,” he says.

There’s a shriek from the direction of the minivan and a loud crash from inside the convenience store. Castiel can’t look away from the barrel of the gun so it takes him a moment to register the heavy thud of footsteps coming their way.

“Gordon! They have a demon with them.”

The new voice is tight with anger and frustration, like the person speaking has been inconvenienced in the worst way. He doesn’t sound very old at all and Castiel finally tears his eyes away to look over the man - _Gordon’s_ \- shoulder.

The owner of the voice can’t be a day older than sixteen. He’s tall but stretched thin, like he’s only just hit an unexpected growth spurt. Dark hair hangs over his forehead in messy bangs and his clothes are the same dark, sturdy attire Dean tends to favor.

His features are soft, stuck more firmly in adolescence than burgeoning adulthood, all wide eyes and round cheeks. A bolt of recognition jolts Castiel right to the very core of him, that tiny beacon of grace he has left, and he’s struck by the thought that this boy will grow out of his youthful attractiveness and be handsome some day. Like his father was. Like his brother is.

“Then _deal with it_ ,” Gordon shoots back.

“ _And_ ,” the boy says, “the clerk called the cops.”

Gordon rolls his eyes and shifts his eyes away for a split second. It’s long enough for Castiel to act. He ignores the throbbing pain in his hand and lashes out, knocking the gun from Gordon’s hand. It falls to the asphalt with a loud clatter and Castiel has to launch himself halfway out of the window to grab onto Gordon and keep him from diving for it. Gordon rears back and knocks Castiel’s head into the doorframe so hard he loosens his grip and slumps back into the car.

It’s long enough for Dean to have grabbed the gun and rolled to his feet, but he’s not paying any attention to Gordon. The gun is trained on the boy and Castiel watches with pain-bleary eyes as the recognition sinks in. Dean’s mouth goes slack, his eyes widen, and all of the breath in his body rushes out on a loud exhale.

Sam may not look the same as he did the last time either Castiel or Dean saw him, but it would be impossible for them not to know him. In any lifetime under any circumstances, Castiel is sure that Dean will always know his brother.

It’s only a split second of hesitation, that small moment weighted with importance, but it’s long enough for Gordon to react. He tackles Dean to the ground and the gun slides under the Impala with a clatter. Castiel glances up and meets Sam’s eyes, takes note of the intent there, and then throws the car door open.

The asphalt is hard and gritty when he lunges out of the backseat and onto his hands and knees. Pain splinters up his arms and through his shoulders but he ignores it and rolls under the car, grappling for the handle of the gun. He grabs hold of it at the same time a hand closes around his leg and gives a yank.

Castiel doesn’t have enough leverage to fight off the grip on him so he shifts the gun in his hands and prepares to aim, just like Dean taught him. He clears the undercarriage of the car, his eyes watering as they adjust from shadow to light. Sam’s gives one last pull and Castiel uses the momentum to his advantage, flipping over onto his back and leveling the gun right at Sam’s forehead.

The boy pauses but there’s no trace of fear in his face or his body. In fact, it looks like he’s trying to figure out what his chances are and how best to leave Castiel a smear on the pavement without getting shot in the process.

“Sam,” Castiel says, raising his voice over the sounds of Dean and Gordon fighting a few feet away. “Just stop for a second.”

The look Sam gives him says that he _has_ stopped and Castiel’s an idiot for not noticing. There’s also a hard, empty glint in his eyes that tells Castiel there won’t be any negotiating with him. He doesn’t look all that different from Gordon, in fact, and if Castiel has any hope of getting through he has to talk fast.

“I know you’ve been looking for me,” Castiel says, holding the gun steady and keeping his eyes locked with Sam’s. “I’ve been looking for you, too. You’re name is Sam Winchester. Your mom died when you were a baby and you grew up on the road with your dad and brother. When you were six years old something very bad happened to you and it tore your family apart.”

Sam’s eyes narrow and his hands clench into fists at his sides. “How do you know that?”

Castiel opens his mouth to reply but he’s cut off by Gordon’s voice.

“Sam! Kill him! Do it now!”

Sam doesn’t look away, doesn’t even flinch, but his hand inches toward the waistband of his jeans.

“Ah, ah, ah,” Ruby says just before she slides her arms around Sam from behind and locks him in a sleeper hold. “You got holy water all over my favorite boots, you little shit.”

Sam makes a choked sound and Castiel pushes to his feet.

“Ruby! Knock it off. That’s _Sam_.”

Ruby stares at Castiel for a minute and pointedly tightens her grip before she drops her arms. Sam takes a step away from both of them and swings his gaze over to Dean and Gordon. Dean’s astride Gordon’s chest, fist drawn back and knuckles already scraped and bloody. He punches the older man, putting all his weight behind the blow, and Gordon goes limp.

In the silence that follows, Castiel becomes aware of the distant, wailing sounds of sirens. He shares a look with Ruby and the two rush over to Dean and help him up.

“’m fine,” he says, waving them off and looking over at Sam.

His brother stands apart from them, eyes flicking from Dean to Gordon and back again. It’s impossible to tell what he’s thinking; his face is completely neutral. Dean takes a step forward, light on his bad leg, and holds out a hand.

“Sam. I don’t know if you even remember me but –”

“You’re my brother,” Sam says. “You’re Dean?”

Dean nods. “Come with us. We can help you. Plus we’re way cooler than this douchebag.”

Sam doesn’t crack a smile. He just says, “I don’t need help.”

Castiel’s heart aches as he watches Dean’s face fall, his hand dropping to hang limp at his side. Ruby’s already got the Impala started and the sirens are closer, probably only a minute away if they’re lucky. Castiel hates to do it, but he reaches out with his bandaged hand and loops his arm through Dean’s.

It’s impossible to tell what’s worse – the blank look on Sam’s face as they walk away from him, or the complete lack of resistance Dean puts up.

They climb quickly into the backseat and Ruby throws the car into reverse and guns it. The tires squeal against the pavement so loud that Dean winces and musters up a glare for the driver. She just grins and swings them onto the street. The passenger side door swings open in the seconds it takes her to slam brakes and shift gears.

Everyone’s head jerks to the right as Sam slides into the seat and closes the door. He leans back in his seat and avoids looking at any of them.

It isn’t until Dean yells for Ruby to go that the world seems to pick up speed again. She floors it and drives recklessly fast through the streets, aiming for their usual stretch of backroad highway. Dean presses his forehead to Castiel’s shoulder and mutters about demons driving his car and _I will gut you if you get one dent in my baby, I swear_.

When an hour passes without so much as a bored state trooper showing up in the rearview mirrors, they all manage to relax although none of them are too comfortable with the idea of stopping before they get to the Roadhouse. Sam still hasn’t said a word and Ruby seems pretty content pushing ninety with the windows down and the radio on.

“How’s your arm?” Dean asks a couple hundred miles along.

Castiel glances down. Dean’s still pressed in pretty close, although he’s done so in a way that he probably thinks retains all of his masculine dignity.

“Fine,” Castiel answers. “How’s your leg?”

“Fine.” Dean pauses and then adds, “Since when did you become such a fucking magnet for trouble, huh?”

“Since I met you, I think,” Castiel answers.

Dean frowns and looks like he isn’t sure what to think about that. That pretty much makes two of them.


	19. Act Two - Chapter Seventeen Pt. 1

 

Making it back to The Roadhouse with Sammy in tow is an accomplishment that does nothing to lift the weight pressing down on Dean's shoulders. It's nightfall when they pull into the packed parking lot, Dean having reclaimed the driver’s seat from Ruby a while back, and that's one less day Dean has left before Azazel comes to collect. He's on the dying end of his third day left, now, and while having Sam means that things have fallen into place so far, it’s a small comfort.

Dean would do anything for his brother, absolutely anything at all, but the prospect of going to hell still terrifies him. Hiding it from the others hasn't been as difficult as he might have thought but it’s been draining and now that he can only wait, he feels that little bit worse. He never has been good at being patient.

Being able to glance into the backseat and see Sam _does_ manage to make everything a little easier to bear. The kid’s screwed up, there’s no doubt about it, and his trust seems contingent on nothing but whatever whim it was that got him in the car in the first place. That’s only a temporary problem; Dean’s going to put Sam back together and save his baby brother and manage to do something right for once.

"I'm gonna go talk to Ellen," Dean says as he shuts down the car.

"I'll stay with the kid," Ruby offers.

Dean raises an eyebrow at her, well aware that none of her actions could ever considered particularly altruistic. She just shrugs at him and says, "Demon, remember? I'd rather avoid taking any more holy water to the face today. And Sam here's underage."

Sam scowls at her. "I've been in there before," he says.

"You know Ellen?" Dean asks.

"Not really," Sam hedges. "I mean, we never talked or anything." He pauses and then adds, "I never told anyone my real name or anything. Just seemed safer."

There's something behind that statement, something hesitant and lacking in any real fear that makes Dean pause. Whether the demon they caught was telling the truth about Sam or not, Dean's noticed the differences between the boy travelling with them and the one he practically raised for six years.

Sam's more like Ruby than he is like Dean or Cas. He says all the right things when he speaks at all, makes all the right faces when he chooses to be responsive, but all of it is clearly thought out and carefully constructed. There's nothing behind it, no spark to give it life.

It's unnerving to think that the reason is because the body that walks and talks and thinks has no soul. Dean’s come across a lot of soulless creatures in his time and he knows what they’re capable of. The more he thinks about it, the more he starts to wonder exactly what Sam’s been up to since Dean and Dad buried him.

But, Dean tells himself, it’ll be fine. They just need to keep an eye on Sam and in a few days his little brother will be whole again.

"You're safe with us," Dean says.

Sam's lips quirk up but there's no affection or love or warmth in the gesture. "Yeah," he says.

Dean smiles back, wonders if the expression is any more heartfelt because it definitely _feels_ just as wooden, and then pushes the door open and climbs out.

Castiel follows suit which surprises Dean even though it probably shouldn't. He’s not stupid; there’s been something brewing between them since they wasted those demons this morning. Dean’s not really interested in fighting. He’s not even looking forward to _talking_ , but apparently he’s the only one with those particular reservations.

It's weird as all hell to look over at Jimmy's body as it rounds the front of the Impala and force himself to think of it as someone else, especially when it's still _Jimmy_ in so many ways. Dean doesn’t have the time it would take to get used to it so he’s trying to rush the process. Mostly it just leaves him with a headache and stupid pains in his chest that he wishes he could blame on heart failure instead of the sharp longing he can barely put a name to.

"I need to talk to you," Castiel says.

Dean shrugs. "Sure thing. Just let me go talk to Ellen first."

He's almost to the doors when a hand closes around his wrist, the grip tight and familiar, and he's being tugged around the side of the building and thrust into shadows. The moon's half-full overhead and gives off just enough light for Dean to be able to see by.

Castiel's face is pale and practically glows but that's not what stops Dean's heart in his chest. The other man is _livid_. Dean doesn't think he's ever seen these features so angry before, but Jimmy's - _Cas'_ \- full mouth is pressed into a thin line and his body trembles with barely contained emotion. His eyes flash, the color impossible to make out but Dean can imagine it well-enough after all these years.

"Tell me it's not true," Castiel says.

The urgency in his voice is what sends Dean's heart from an unsure, arrhythmic thudding into a panicked staccato beat.

"What-"

" _Don't_. Tell me you didn't do it. Tell me that demon was lying."

There's something about Cas' face, the lack of hope beneath the anger and the way his voice shakes with frustration, that tells Dean there's no lying his way out of this. Not that it would do much good because even if Cas bought it, even if he was dumb enough to believe any lie Dean could come up with right now, it would all be useless in a few days when Dean found himself dragged down to hell. Dean's ashamed of what he did but he had no choice and he'll face down Castiel's anger if he has to, but he's not going to apologize and it would do him no good to tell anything but the truth.

"I can't," he says.

Cas lets out this sound, pained and heated, and slams Dean back against the wall. It reminds him of that last meeting they had before Dean left, of all of the hurtful things Dean said to Jimmy to force his hand, to get him to let go. It's always Dean in this position, Jimmy's hands - Cas' now - shoving and bruising, forcing Dean between a literal rock and a hard place.

It’s the kind of familiar scene that he wishes could be different, especially right now. He’d wasted so much fucking time pissing Jimmy off before and now he's doing it with Cas, too. But some things really never change at all and Dean's starting to think he might be one of them.

" _Why_?" Cas demands. "Why the _fuck_ would you do that?"

Dean pulls in his arms and swings them up toward Cas', breaking the hold the other man has on him. "Because I needed to," he shoots back.

Cas huffs out a laugh that sounds so much like Jimmy at his most frustrated it hits Dean like a brick to the face. "For who?" Castiel asks. "Who did you need to do this for? God, did you even think about it at all or did you just rush into it like you always do?"

It's not exactly an unfair accusation, but it still stings like one. Dean glares at Cas and says, "You don't know anything about it so don't you dare judge me."

"It's not always about you, Dean!" Cas yells, getting right up into Dean's space and pinning him to the wall with his body, his dizzying proximity, as surely as his arms did before. "What about Sam?"

"I did this for Sam!" Dean shouts back.

"Then what about me?"

The words bounce off the brackets of Dean's ribs and echo through his chest the same way Cas' voice rings in his ears. Dean swallows and his tongue sticks to the roof of his mouth, his throat too dry and scratchy to produce any sound. If Castiel's hoping for a response then he just isn't getting one other than Dean's fish-on-land impersonation. It might even be funny any other day; the way Cas stares at him, though, with a heaving chest and wild eyes . . . there's nothing funny about it.

"You're leaving me," Castiel says into Dean's silence. "And you have no idea what Hell’s like. What they'll do to you. I do, Dean. _I know_. And you're just going to leave me here to live with that?"

"I'll be fine," Dean lies. "I'll-"

He's cut off by the achingly familiar touch of lips against his and if ever there was a doubt that Castiel and Jimmy are one and the same, it's chased away in that moment. Castiel kisses like Jimmy, all barely-contained hunger and need; he tastes like Jimmy, too, just like Dean remembers. The curve of his mouth fits against Dean's the same and he still makes the same noises when Dean kisses him back, like he's shocked and blindingly happy he's being pulled closer instead of pushed away.

There's something new behind this kiss despite the familiarity. It's not just desperation, although Dean certainly feels that rattling around in his bones and pouring its way up and into the press of their mouths. For all that the kiss should be hard and angry, Castiel kisses him like he's making a discovery, like he's committing Dean to memory. And fuck if Dean doesn't respond, hauling Cas close by the hips and licking deep into his mouth to try and find something that wasn't there before, memorizing the heat and the taste and the feel of him.

The wall at his back is rough but sturdy and Dean leans into it, pulling Castiel with him until they’re pressed together from shoulders to knees. Castiel's body is the way Dean remembers Jimmy's as being, but Dean's a little different. He's broader, stronger. Cas fits against him like he's just slotted himself back into the empty space he was carved out of, as natural as breathing, and it makes Dean want to hold on and never let go.

He nips at Cas' bottom lip, swallows up the needy sound he gets in response. He wants to relearn everything about the body in his arms and then let Cas teach him all the things they never got to before. Dean molds his hands around Cas' hips as they trade kisses that are deep and wet and yearning. Cas just folds into him, gives and takes in equal measure the way he always has.

"I love you," Cas says when he finally pulls away.

The words are said with such quiet surety, like they're no big deal at all at the same time they're the most important three syllables anyone's ever uttered. Dean's breath catches in his chest and he wonders if he's supposed to say them back, if he even can. Maybe before, when Cas was just Jimmy and not Jimmy-and-Cas-in-one. But even then, Dean has to be honest with himself - he couldn't have said it. Not with his time on earth limited, not when saying them would mean admitting there's still something here that he wants to live for.

Guilt settles heavy in Dean's stomach and sticks his tongue to the roof of his mouth but Cas doesn't flinch away at Dean's silence. He just tucks his head into the crook of Dean's shoulder and clutches at the sleeves of his leather jacket.

"I've loved you since I first saw the shine of your soul," Cas says. "And I've been in love with you since the first time we met. But I hate you so much right now I can't even stand it."

"Yeah," Dean says quietly, burying his face in the soft nest of Castiel's hair, "sometimes I really hate me, too."

_._

 

With The Roadhouse as packed as it is, they don't get a chance to talk to Ellen more than in passing.

"It'd be safer to have this discussion tomorrow," she says, her voice pitched just under the din of the room. "But I'm afraid to send you off since you didn't make it back last time."

"Not my fault!" Dean says and Ellen just grins at him.

"You are nothing but trouble, Dean Winchester," she says.

"You have no idea," Castiel mutters, which earns him a laugh from Ellen and an indignant _hey!_ from Dean.

She offers them a place to stay for the night, but four bodies is asking for a lot of space and Dean doesn't want to wear out his welcome. Especially not when he plans on asking for Ellen's help looking after Cas and Sammy when he's gone.

"We've got it covered," he says.

Ellen looks dubious but they agree to meet up the next morning and she's supposed to take tardiness and a lack of contact to mean they've been kidnapped again or they’re dead in a ditch somewhere. They wander out with Ellen still yelling at them to be careful, dammit, and do their best not to get themselves killed.

"I mean it! I've got enough gray hairs dealing with my daughter, I don't need you boys adding to 'em."

Dean just waves at her as they leave.

"I like her," Cas says as soon as the door closes behind them.

Somehow, Dean's not at all surprised. He's smiling as Castiel closes his eyes to contact Gabriel. A moment later there's a rush of displaced air and the archangel's smug face is directly in Dean's line of sight.

"I hear we're having a sleepover?"

Dean just rolls his eyes and braces himself for the jarring sensation of being teleported back to Gabriel's place. He cracks his eye open at the last minute to glare at Gabriel and say, "And don't forget my car."

"You are such a strange little boy," Gabriel mutters but obliges, popping them all from the parking lot into the spacious garage back at his gigantic home.

Dean's still trying to pop his ears and shake off the disquieting sense of displacement that accompanies angel travel when he hears Gabriel's voice.

"Welcome to Chez Gabriel," he's saying. "Break what you want, sleep where you want, and dinner's in five."

"Right," Sam says.

It's still so strange to hear that voice. It's obviously not the same now as it was nearly a decade ago and there's really nothing of the Sammy that Dean knew in it. Granted, even if Sam still had his soul the difference between a first grader and a sixteen year old would still take some getting used to. Actually, it's not like there's that much of a difference between angst-ridden teenagers and soulless creatures anyway, and Dean smirks at the thought.

"Come on," he says, hooking an arm around Cas' neck and giving in to the impulse to nudge Sam as they walk past. "I'm starving."

It's a relatively quiet night and Dean appreciates it for what it is. Sam and Ruby get along almost eerily well considering she hated his guts that first hour of driving; apparently they’re able to relate to each other in a way she's never been able to with Dean. His little brother seems to like Gabriel well enough, as much as Sam can like anyone or anything. It doesn't hurt that Gabriel's sense of humor is generally well-suited to teenagers with dubious - or no - morals.

Dinner's a spread of the best in food that's likely to clog arteries and cause heart attacks, including some potato wedges that have Ruby making porno noises from across the table.

"Tone it down, Jenna Jameson," Dean mutters which actually earns a snort from Sam.

"I can't," Ruby moans. "These are amazing."

Dean rolls his eyes and has to sigh when he glances up and locks onto Sam's entirely too interested and speculative expression. That does not bode well at all. Ruby finishes the potato wedges eventually, but the reprieve only lasts until dessert. Gabriel's gone all out for the last course and for a second Dean wonders if he died and got sent to Heaven on accident. They all dive in to the assorted cakes, pies, and cookie platters. Sam's plate rivals Gabriel's in terms of sheer volume but Dean knows exactly what he wants and bypasses everything else to get straight to it.

This time when Ruby starts in with the sex sounds, Dean's right there with her when his first bite of Key Lime pie explodes on his tongue with the perfect amount of sugary-infused tartness. He doesn't even notice everyone's eyes swinging between him and Ruby, who's all but fellating the chocolate cake on the end of her fork.

"Well," Gabriel eventually says. "This is awkward."

"Shut up," Dean says. "I'm having a moment."

"Should we leave you two alone?" Castiel asks.

His eyes spark with good humor, a wealth of fondness, and something else. Dean pauses for a second, trying to figure out if that look means what he thinks it does, and then slides his fork out of his mouth.

"Jealous?" he asks.

Instead of answering, Cas nibbles on what's left of his sugar cookie. All the little lingering glances he keeps flicking Dean's way are answer enough.

Dean’s reluctant to leave the small bubble of safety and warmth that the kitchen provides. He keeps thinking that this is one of his last meals, one of the few shots he still has to spend time with Cas and his brother and even Ruby. Every so often Cas catches his gaze and looks away quickly, like he’s thinking the same thing.

No one else seems to catch on and they can’t make the food, or the dwindling space in their stomachs, last forever. They move onto Gabriel's less formal sitting room after they finish eating, piling onto plush, leather couches while Gabriel sets up a video game system and challenges Sam to the first match. Sam doesn't look like he has any idea what he's doing when they get started, fumbling with the controls and making confused faces at what his character's up to on the screen. Gabriel trounces him pretty good and, feeling either generous or cocky, offers to go again.

"Yeah, okay," Sam says.

There's a glint of satisfaction on his face that Dean recognizes and he leans in close to Castiel to whisper in his ear. "Your brother's about to get his ass handed to him by my brother."

Castiel's lips curve up in a grin. When he turns to reply, his nose nudges up against Dean's and they're close enough that this could be awkward and really inappropriate if anyone but them was paying attention.

"He deserves it," Cas says.

Dean huffs out an amused breath, watches Castiel's eyes dart down to his mouth. And then he turns away and Dean swallows hard around all the conflicting emotions clogging up his throat. They watch as Sam kicks the shit out of Gabriel in the game and Ruby applauds.

"The kid might be an even better hustler than you," Ruby tells Dean.

"Just carrying on the family tradition," Dean shoots back.

They play around for a while longer. Sam's practically impossible to beat, tearing through Ruby and Dean and Gabriel again before Castiel finally gives in and grabs a controller. Dean's never known Cas - or Jimmy, really - to play a video game before but he takes to it like a duck to friggin' water. After a few fumbling near misses, he stages the comeback of the gaming ages and nabs the win. Sam looks so flummoxed by what just happened that Dean can't help but laugh.

"One more time, come on," Sam finally says.

Castiel shrugs and they go again. And again. And then Gabriel switches out to another game that neither of them have ever played before and they all watch as Sam and Cas master it within fifteen minutes. Ruby and Gabriel wander off eventually, leaving Sam and Cas to their nerd competition. Dean's perfectly happy right where he is. He doubts he could sleep anyway, but more importantly it'd be a waste to try when he could be here. Sam seems almost normal, like any other kid, even if it's obvious he's not. Watching Cas interact with him, though, treating him like he's just anybody . . . well, it makes Dean feel a little more okay about everything.

If Sam has Castiel when he's gone, and hell, maybe even Gabriel and Ruby, at least he'll be safe. Not only that, but Dean knows Jimmy which means he knows Cas, too. If nothing else, Castiel'll do Sam one better than just looking after him. Cas'll love him.

That's the last thought Dean has before he drifts off and when he wakes up, the television's turned low and some movie Dean doesn't recognize is playing. He spots Sam on the loveseat across the room, eyes glued to the screen.

"You should go to bed," Sam says without looking over.

"'m fine," Dean replies. "What about you? Should I put you on a curfew or something?"

Sam shrugs and glances over. "I don't sleep," he says.

Dean mulls that over and then says, "Huh."

"Yeah."

Sam turns back to the television and Dean's about to ask where Cas is when he spots his friend lying on the floor, his head pillowed on his arms. His shirt's rucked up around his waist to reveal a wide strip of bare skin that Dean imagines would be warm under his own fingertips. The urge to touch is ridiculously strong, just like the urge to call had been for two years or the urge to stay had been the years before that.

Dean's known for a long time that what he feels for the man sleeping on Gabriel's living room floor goes beyond some everyday emotional response to another person. Words like "friendship" don't cover it, but calling it a "relationship" doesn't seem to come close to the truth, either.

What Uriel had said about Cas and everything he gave up for Dean, true or not, just highlights the fact that they're more to each other than any two people ever could be under average circumstances. Not that anything about them has ever been average. Dean's a Winchester, practically born to hunt the kinds of monsters almost no one knows exist and he's looking at his best friend, a man who used to be an angel but chose the crappiness of the human experience instead. That's pretty much the definition of abnormal.

If he had more time, Dean thinks he'd want to try this over with Cas. He'd do it right this time. But life doesn't come with a reset button and at this point he's stuck with what he's got - all of the fuck-ups and the consequences and a shit-ton of unnamable feelings that threaten to overwhelm him at any given moment. He glances at the VCR clock and realizes he has two days now. That's it.

He rolls off the couch and kneels next to Cas, reaching out to give his shoulder a gentle shake.

"Hey," he says, soft. "Floors make shitty beds."

"Don't wanna go to bed," Cas mumbles, burying his face further in his arms.

Dean laughs quietly and shakes him again. "Yeah, you do. Come on."

It takes some work but Cas lets himself be pulled to his feet. He's impossible to budge after that, though, and Dean stops tugging at his arm after a couple of fruitless seconds.

"Cas. Bed. Let's go."

But Cas just stares up at him, eyes too clear for someone who'd been passed out and practically drooling two minutes ago. "I don't want to," he says again.

There's nothing petulant about his tone, just something lost and sad that makes Dean's chest ache. He understands, _God_ , does he understand. It's just not something he expected Cas to feel, too. The weight of time is Dean's to bear, the ticking of the clock his tightening noose and no one else's. But he thinks about what Cas said earlier, about being left, and he realizes he's been such a selfish bastard, not just about this but about everything.

"Okay," he says.

"Okay," Cas echoes.

They fall onto the couch together and when Cas curls himself around Dean's body like he can keep Dean safe, like he can _protect_ him, it's impossible to feel self-conscious. Sam doesn't seem to care and anyway, Dean wants to live with the illusion for just a little while.

Cas' body is sleepy and warm against Dean's, the smell of him soothing. The volume of the movie increases just a little, Sam's quiet invitation for them to watch with him. Dean's almost caught onto the thread of the plot again when he feels Cas' lips flutter against his neck in a soft kiss. They don't say anything - Dean's pretty sure any words murmured right now would definitely qualify as a chick flick moment - but he tightens his arms around Cas and falls asleep again sometime between one breath and the next.

“Dean. _Dean_.”

Castiel’s voice is nothing but a whisper, insistent but not urgent. Dean takes that to mean this isn’t an emergency but he’s still awake in seconds. The first thing he sees is Castiel’s face hovering above his own and Dean can’t help the way his whole body floods with warmth and contentment at the sight.

The room’s still dark so it can’t be morning, yet, but the television’s been muted. The light from whatever show it was left on spills over the couch so Dean can clearly see the curve of Castiel’s mouth, the hard line of his jaw, the sloping bridge of his nose. They’re features that have been familiar to Dean for years and he feels a powerful swell of affection just looking at them.

“Everything okay?”

“No,” Cas says simply and then he adds, “I miss you. I’ve missed you for a long time.”

The frankness in Castiel’s voice is almost too much to take in and Dean can feel his cheeks growing hot with a blush that he hopes isn’t noticeable in the dim light.

“And I’ve been thinking,” Cas presses on, completely heedless of how uncomfortable Dean is with this conversation.

“You should’ve been _sleeping_ ,” Dean mutters.

“Shut up, Dean,” Cas says, and then he leans in and presses their lips together.

It’s only the second time in just as many years that Dean’s had this and he wants to kick himself for ever walking away from it so easily. Castiel kisses him like he has all the time in the world and Dean wants to believe that it’s true. He all but melts into each pass of Cas’ lips over his own, each shared breath, the tease of tongue or a mischievous hint of teeth. There’s only one person in the world who’s ever kissed Dean like this before, even after all the women he’s hooked up with, and that same person is the one carding a hand through his short hair.

Maybe he’s different now, Dean can’t deny that, but he’s not _gone_. Jimmy is Cas and Cas is Jimmy and it fucks with Dean’s head to think about but he knows that it’s right. He has no idea _how_ , but that’s nothing Dean can’t deal with.

When Cas speaks again, he doesn’t pull back far to do so; his lips brush over Dean’s with every word, each one like another kiss.

“You don’t get to leave me again without saying goodbye,” he says.

“What,” Dean mumbles back, his stomach flipping over with a heady combination of nerves and anticipation, “a handshake wouldn’t be good enough?”

Castiel’s eyes narrow and he surges forward, sealing his mouth over Dean’s and kissing him like both their lives depend on it. Dean kinda wishes they _did_. If it were down to this – the way Castiel’s hands move to cradle the back of his head, the quickslick slide of their tongues, the warmth that pools in the pit of Dean’s stomach – they might just bypass mortality altogether and live forever.

“Hang on,” Dean says, forcing himself to pull away before his brain liquefies and starts leaking out of his ears from a stupid kiss alone. “You’re not seducing me in front of my baby brother, are you?”

Cas’ face twists up so fast Dean can’t help but snicker.

“ _No_. He woke me up when he went upstairs. Ugh, way to ruin the moment.”

Dean tips his head up so he can laugh into Cas’ neck. He pulls back after a moment and leans up to kiss the fond look of exasperation off of his friend’s face.

“Sorry,” he says.

Cas opens his mouth to reply and Dean takes advantage, sucking the other man’s bottom lip into his mouth and then surging forward to resume the kiss he’d interrupted in the first place.

It’s too easy to lose himself in the way all of this feels; Cas’ body is warm against his and there’s nothing angelic about his mouth or the way he uses it to make Dean gasp and kiss back harder and deeper. When it’s come to sex in the past, Dean’s always been in control. There’ve been a few times he’s let a girl take over but Dean’s never been so caught up that he’s been unable to contain himself.

Developing a reputation for being really damn good in bed has required that a certain level of dignity be contained because without it, he’d be just another fumbling loser with no clue how to make anyone but himself feel good. He’s always taken pride in his ability to hold it together but Cas doesn’t seem all that impressed.

His lips move away from Dean’s to the edge of his jaw and then below. There’s a spot high on Dean’s neck that Jimmy’d discovered one lazy afternoon spent tangled up in Dean’s bed. Dean shivers when Castiel traces the skin with the flat of his tongue and moans outright when the licking turns to hard suction.

Castiel doesn’t even detach his mouth when he swings himself up to straddle Dean’s waist. He alternates between low, gentle suckling and electric scrapes of teeth and Dean just . . . gives himself up to it. He’s hard now, cock straining against the front of his jeans, and he hasn’t felt this desperate to get off in longer than he can even remember. Cas rolls his hips against Dean’s in a slow, dirty grind and an embarrassing sound spills past Dean’s lips.

He can feel Cas smile against his skin and then there are hands tugging at the hem of his t-shirt. Dean sits up and they both get distracted by the way the movement brings them flush from chest to hip. Their mouths meet in the middle and Cas makes a soft, needy sound that Dean answers with a quiet groan of his own.

They part long enough to yank both shirts off and when they come together again, the slide of bare skin against bare skin is almost enough to short out Dean’s brain completely. Cas’ head falls back at the sensation and Dean seizes the opportunity to taste the pale stretch of neck presented to him. He explores Cas’ skin with his lips and tongue and teeth, fighting the urge to leave his mark behind like Jimmy always used to do. He’s not a dumb kid anymore and he knows that hickeys are pretty embarrassing but he can’t help the primal urge he has to stake a claim.

Hell, maybe it’s not even his place to do so after the way he’s acted. All that time wasted because Dean thought he was doing the right thing. If he could go back, he’d do it different. He’s not sure how and he can’t regret the fact that he’s one step closer to killing the demon who ruined his family or that he’s found Sam, but he could have done better.

Dean buries his face in Cas’ shoulder to collect his thoughts; desire still burns hot and insistent in his veins but it hits him again that he fucked this up the first time around and now they’re here again and Dean’s still managed to get it all wrong.

“Dean,” Cas whispers, cupping his hands around Dean’s neck and urging him to lean back and look up.

There isn’t anything in Castiel’s expression that’s accusing or bitter. Dean isn’t stupid enough to think that everything’s fine between them, now, that all of the anger and hurt and confusion is gone. But Castiel brings their lips together in a chaste kiss that says this isn’t about that.

Dean’s at least got a chance to say a real goodbye, here, and he’s not going to waste it.

They fall back against the sinfully soft cushions of Gabriel’s couch and exchange slow, languid kisses that grow in intensity until Cas is making those needful little noises that Dean loves and Dean’s focused on this moment and nothing else.

Cas eventually breaks the kiss and mouths his way along Dean’s jaw and up toward his ear.

“I want you to remember this,” he says, his voice deeper and more demanding than Dean can ever remember it being before. “No matter what happens, you remember how I make you feel. Remember how you make _me_ feel.”

“Cas,” Dean gasps out, his hands moving over the bare length of the other man’s back.

“ _Promise_.”

Dean barely gets the chance to nod before Cas is gone, shimmying his way down Dean’s body. It could almost be angel mojo that makes such quick work of the fastenings to Dean’s pants, but that’s all Cas - Cas’ hands pulling his jeans and boxers down past his hips and Cas’ fingers caressing the hard, thick line of Dean’s cock and Cas’ _mouth_ pressing a kiss to the slippery head.

They never got around to doing this even though Dean’s sure they both wanted to. They were taking things slow and, in the end, that meant missing out on a lot of the stuff Dean’s always taken for granted with his girlfriends and casual flings.

Cas doesn’t seem to know what he’s doing from experience. He takes Dean into his mouth a bit hesitantly at first and there are a few frustrating minutes where he can’t seem to decide if he wants to suck or lick. It’s like the worst kind of tease but Cas’ inexperience is a turn-on, too. There’s something about knowing he didn’t find someone else to share this with that makes Dean’s heart race and his skin pebble with goosebumps.

It’s a struggle to remain a gentleman while Cas gets used to this; Dean fights to keep his hands at his sides and his hips still, doesn’t bark out orders because he’s found out the hard way that some people think that’s rude. He just waits it out, enjoys the fact that even though this isn’t a great blowjob by any means, it’s still really fucking _good_. And then Cas figures out what he’s doing and it gets even better.

It only takes a few minutes after that for Cas to gain confidence. He takes Dean as far into his mouth as he can and sucks his way slowly to the tip in a way that drags a guttural moan from Dean’s throat. He starts to use his hand in tandem with his mouth and finds unique and impressive ways to use his tongue. A few soft suckles to just the head of Dean’s cock and that’s about all the patience Dean has. He slides his hands into Cas’ hair and tugs just a little. There’s an answering groan around his dick and the vibrations set off a chain reaction that starts with a choked off curse and ends with Dean’s hips canting up.

Cas just takes it, pulling off a little to catch his breath but going right back in a moment later. Dean really wishes he could make this last longer, preferably forever, but it’s too much. It’s been weeks since he got laid and even if it had only been a few days before, this is different. It’s Castiel and Jimmy in one, it’s something Dean’s wanted ever since he first left Lawrence. He thought, after the whole angel confession, that he’d never get the chance to have it again. He doesn’t usually like being wrong, but in this case he’s really glad he was.

“Cas,” Dean warns, pulling more insistently at his hair.

A sound of acknowledgement is his only response. Castiel doesn’t bother moving away, just opens his eyes to look up the length of Dean’s body. It’s impossible to see their color in the low light, but Dean’s intimate enough with it to fill in the shadowed spaces. Their eyes meet and in that moment this is more than just sex. It always has been, but even the orgasm Dean can feel building to a crescendo at the base of his spine is more. This is . . . it’s everything.

There isn’t much warning before that feeling snaps and Dean’s coming, his head thrown back against the cushion and his fingers clenched in Cas’ hair. Cas just sucks him right through it, pulling off a few seconds shy of it becoming uncomfortable.

Dean shakes off the lethargy that threatens to swallow his body and hauls Castiel up by the arms. He’s never really been into kissing the girls who’ve let him do that before, but he doesn’t care in this case. He pulls Castiel down by the back of the neck and kisses him hard and deep and filthy. Cas kisses back, his cock a hard line against Dean’s hip.

It’s a little tough to get Cas’ jeans unfastened and Dean would love to lay him out and return the favor, but he barely gets a hand around Cas’ cock before the other man is thrusting forward and making a deep, breathy noise that means he’s close.

The angle’s tough and Dean can feel the teeth of Cas’ zipper biting into his skin but he doesn’t care. He does what he can with the limited space and ignores the ache in his wrist, focuses instead on how familiar the hot, smooth weight of Cas’ dick feels in his hand. Cas buries his face in the side of Dean’s neck, muffling all of his gasps and groans. He fucks into Dean’s fist and clutches at Dean’s shoulders and he’s probably going to come any second.

Dean reaches up with his free hand to card his fingers through Cas’ hair, giving a sharp pull that he knew would be just the trick. Cas’ whole body arches up like he’s been struck by lightning and he pulses in Dean’s hand, spilling hot and sticky. He doesn’t even make a sound; his mouth falls open and he trembles almost violently, but it’s like his orgasm took away his ability to get his vocal chords to work. It’s pretty much the hottest thing Dean’s seen in recent memory and he soaks it all up, remembering the promise he made earlier and trying to embed everything he feels and sees and hears onto his mind, tucking it all away so no one can ever take it from him.

They collapse into a sweaty heap of bodies and catch their breath. They’ll need to get cleaned up, soon, especially since Dean wouldn’t put it past Gabriel or Ruby to wander down right about now.

Later, though. For now, Dean doesn’t want to move. Cas’ body is curled up against his and for the first time in a long, long fucking time Dean feels _good_. He’s whole and he’s alive and he’s never appreciated that fact as much as he does right now.

_._

Gabriel gets them back to The Roadhouse early the next morning. Ellen's waiting for them inside along with a skinny, blonde girl who has a good portion of the bar covered in open books and looseleaf papers.

"Hey," Ellen greets, nodding at all of them. "Glad to see you didn't get yourselves snatched up by demons this time."

"That was a one time only sorta deal," Dean assures her.

Ellen's eyes narrow in skepticism and she just says, "Better be. This is my daughter Jo, by the way. She'll be eavesdropping on us today."

" _Mom_ ," Jo says, her cheeks flushing with embarrassment.

"Am I wrong?" Ellen asks.

Jo frowns but doesn't answer, just ducks her head and returns to her homework. Ellen moves out from behind the bar and looks from Sam to Gabriel and then back again.

"You look familiar," she tells Sam. "But you I don't think I've met before."

Dean steps in before anyone else can say anything; it's probably better if he handles these particular introductions.

"Ellen, Gabriel. He's . . . well, you're gonna think I'm crazy but he's an angel."

" _Arch_ angel," Gabriel corrects. "Jeez, would you get it right?"

"And this," Dean says, talking over Gabriel, "Is my brother Sam. He says he's been in here before."

Ellen's eyes widen and she stares at Sam like she's just seen a ghost. All things considered, that's not exactly too far off the mark.

"But how?" she asks, eyes flicking over to Dean again.

"Not really sure," Dean admits.

Castiel shifts his weight from foot to foot next to him but his expression is blank when Dean glances over. He's been restless all day, constantly hovering just inside Dean's personal space and completely heedless of all the teasing that comes from Ruby and Gabriel. Dean's been too preoccupied to think much of it, but he also gets where Cas is coming from. He feels that same sense of unease rattling around his own body.

"All right," Ellen says, pulling out a stool next to Jo and perching on the edge of it. "You said you wanted to talk."

This is the part Dean doesn't want to go through. He's sick to his stomach just thinking about what he has to say but there's no way around it. He owes everyone an explanation and he only wishes Bobby was here so he wouldn't have to tell this sad story twice.

"When we got caught by Azazel," Dean starts, pacing away so he won't have to look at anyone, "I didn't escape. They let me go."

"Why in the hell would they do that?" Ellen asks.

Dean swallows hard and then forces the words out like bile. "Because I made a deal."

It's quiet, the revelation coming as a surprise to only three people in the room. The scratch of Jo's pen across paper has ceased and Dean isn't even sure if Ellen and Sam are still breathing back there. When he turns, Sam's just staring at him like he isn't sure how to process this information. Ellen, though, is all silent fury etched onto her face and hovering in the lines of her body.

"You _what_?" she asks.

"Azazel told me about Sam," Dean says. "He said he'd help him get his soul back if I did it. I couldn't say no."

Ellen chews on the inside of her cheek and then asks, "What are the terms?"

"Me and the Colt for Sam," Dean says. He takes a deep breath and then adds, "He gave me a week."

"A week," Ruby repeats, voice flat. "So that's two days left?"

Dean nods and doesn't bother to hide his flinch at the tiny sound that forces its way out of Castiel's mouth, choked off and pained. Ellen curses, low and violent. Even Ruby looks shocked and almost dismayed by the news.

"You _idiot_ ," Castiel says. "You're always such a _fucking idiot_."

"We've been over this, Cas," Dean shoots back. "I had no choice."

But Cas just laughs, short and bitter. "Azazel tricked you, Dean. He can't give you Sam's soul."

"And why the hell not?"

"Because I'm the one who had it last."

That statement's enough to leave everyone floored, Dean included. It doesn't make any sense at all and Dean wants to throttle Castiel for being so cryptic, so _stupid_. But Castiel looks convinced of it and when he speaks there's nothing but truth behind his voice.

"I was there the night Sam was killed," Castiel says, his eyes darting from Dean to Sam. "That was the same night I fell. I was too late to save your body, Sam, but I was able to retrieve your soul before it passed over."

"You have it," Dean says, trying out the words on his tongue. They still don't feel right but what can he do but believe them?

Castiel ducks his head at that. "Not anymore. It's with my grace. I . . . was torn apart when I fell. My grace could be anywhere but find that and you find Sam's soul."

Ice-cold anger and bitter regret crashes over Dean like a wave. He wants to lash out at Castiel who could have stopped all of this and he wants to punch himself in the face for listening to Azazel in the first place. He knows neither of these are viable options but that doesn't stop him from needing to do something, anything, to release the jagged tension that's taken up root in his belly.

" _Fuck_!" he yells. "We don't have time to find your fucking grace, Cas. We can't - _I_ can't-"

"Hey, hey, hey," Ellen says, jumping to her feet and striding over to Dean.

He doesn't even realize he's shaking until she cups his face in her hands and he can feel the difference between her steady hold and his own trembling body.

"We'll figure this out, okay? But you can't lose it on us. You calm down and we'll come up with a plan. We won't let you go without a fight, you got that?"

Dean nods and murmurs a quiet, "Yes, ma'am."

"Good," she says, offering him a small smile before she takes a step back. "So we're up shit creek. I suggest we build ourselves a paddle."

There's a pause and then Sam says, "I have an idea."

He meets Dean's eyes and even though there's no real empathy there, a void where emotion should be, Dean can see a glint of intelligence, of cunning. Feelings are all well and good and go a long way toward prompting someone to do the right thing, but they're also what landed Dean in this mess in the first place. Maybe it's time to try something different and even if they're still new to each other, Dean trusts his brother. There's no reason not to.

Dean nods once and Sam answers with one of his almost-smiles.

_._

They decide to leave Ellen out of the final plan. She's got Jo to look after, for one thing. For another, Jo seems pretty keen on tagging along and that's the only way to get her to stay put. If she were any older, Dean might actually vouch for Jo to come with them. She's a spitfire of a girl with a sharp mind. Halfway through Sam laying out the plan, she'd shoved her homework aside and jumped right in to play devil's advocate and find every possible loophole in the plan. Not that there were many; Sam's sharper than even Dean had initially anticipated but putting him and Jo together had been kind of a beautiful - and frightening - thing to see.

"They are gonna be a pair of trouble-makers, aren't they?" Ellen had said at one point.

They’d had their heads bent together, the contrast between Sam's dark mop and Jo's stick-straight blonde locks stark even in the dim light of the bar. They didn't get along necessarily since they keep butting heads over what to do and how, but they had a certain energy together that Dean could see working well in the future.

He’d nodded at Ellen and said, “They'll definitely be a handful.”

In the end they come up with something that just might work. It's not foolproof because, as Sam and Ruby both point out, demons are unpredictable on the best of days. There's no guarantee that everything will go according to plan and even if it does, Gabriel and Castiel assure Dean that dealing with Azazel will still be more difficult than they can really plan for. He's not like other demons - not the way he thinks, the way he reacts, and definitely not in terms of power.

All they need once the plan's been made final is the Colt. Ellen and Dean make the trip to retrieve it from some secret location even Jo doesn't know about. It's a tiny storage unit about thirty minutes away where Ellen keeps a lot of her late husband's things. Her late husband who, Dean discovers when they step inside, must have been a hunter.

"Your dad left this with me a few months before he died," Ellen says. "He was supposed to come get it from me."

She heads straight for a portable safe in the back while Dean looks around at all of the weapons and artifacts assembled in the tiny space. Dean finally drags his eyes away from his surroundings to focus on Ellen as she opens the safe and pulls out a bundle of cloth. She walks it over to Dean and unwraps it to reveal the Colt tucked inside. Other than a Latin inscription and pentagram etched into it, it looks like it could be any other gun. There's comfort in knowing that it's not, knowing the power it holds.

"Did Dad ever use it?" Dean asks, taking the gun from Ellen and hefting it in his hand.

"Nope," Ellen says. "Told me he was saving every bullet for that yellow-eyed bastard."

"So there's a chance it doesn't even work."

"I guess it's a good thing you've got an angel on your side then, huh?"

"Archangel," Dean says. "And yeah, I guess it is."

They'd discussed that when Sam was coming up with the plan. He'd wanted Gabriel to be the one to kill Azazel for the sake of time and efficiency.

"If you want to use the Colt," he'd said, "you're gonna have to get Azazel into a devil's trap just to make sure you can get the shot off. Why do that when Gabriel can just smite him?"

"The kid has a point," Gabriel had conceded.

Dean had acknowledged it, too, but he needs to do this. Azazel's the sick, demonic fuck who ruined everything for Dean. The demon had killed his mother and torn apart his family. The little part where he'd tricked Dean into selling his soul doesn't sit well, either. Gabriel will be ready - and more than willing - to smite some evil if it comes down to it, but Dean's determined to make sure it doesn't. This whole thing started with the Winchesters and it's made a casualty of every single one of them since. It'd damn sure better end with them, too.

Dean stares down at the gun in his hands. "Hey, Ellen. Just . . . if anything happens do me a favor and keep on eye on Cas and Sam for me? I know Bobby will and they'll have each other but I'd feel better knowing you were there for them, too."

"Kid," Ellen says, her voice gruff with affection, "you didn't even have to ask."

Dean smiles at that and doesn't even mind when she ruffles his hair before leading the way back out of the storage unit.

_._

There's a crossroads about fifteen miles away that Ruby says will work well for the summoning. Dean's deal won't be up for another day but they'd all decided it would be best not to wait for Azazel to show himself. If this doesn't go well, Dean's going to lose out on those last few hours but it was his stupid ass that got them into this. This is the only shot they have at getting him out of it. They set off just as the sun's starting to set, following Ruby's directions to the designated spot.

It's a deserted criss-cross of dirt roads well off the main highway. It doesn't look like anyone's been here recently, but Ruby assures them it's an active spot for those seeking the fast track to success. Dean parks the Impala a safe distance away and pauses with his hands curled around the wheel.

"Dean?" Ruby asks.

"You go ahead," he says, nodding at her and Sam.

They share a look and then file out of the backseat. Cas moves to follow but Dean darts a hand out and closes his fingers around Cas' wrist.

"Wait a sec."

Cas settles against the passenger seat again; Dean can feel that gaze on him, those stupid blue eyes that he fell into all those years ago and that still own him completely. Dean doesn't look over at him, though. He can't. There's a feeling in his gut, a really awful one, that tells him this just isn't going to work. At this point all Dean wants is to see Azazel dead and to be able to put his family to rest. His stomach's tense with loss and regret and he kind of wants to cry. If he looks at Cas, chances are he will.

So he keeps his eyes locked on the horizon, unfocused and unseeing.

"I'm scared," he admits. "I mean, I'm fuckin' terrified."

Cas shifts, tugs at his arm until Dean lets go and then twines their fingers together.

"I know," he says.

Dean nods once and when he finally manages to turn his head, Castiel's the one staring out the windshield. "I'm sorry," he says.

Castiel's lips quirk up in a sad little smile. "Me, too."

They've got less than an hour of sunlight left and Dean doesn't really want to confront Azazel under the cover of full darkness. He's not really in any rush to get out there, though, not when he'd like to carve out a comfortable world right here. It's impossible, he knows, but that doesn't stop the wanting. He coughs around the lump in his throat and gives Castiel's hand a light pull. When Cas finally looks at him, Dean leans in and presses their lips together. It's a soft, barely-there kiss until Cas' hand comes up to cup Dean's cheek and hold him steady. Castiel licks deep into Dean's mouth and Dean sucks on his tongue just to hear that gentle, needful sigh one more time.

They're both reluctant to pull apart, their lips lingering in the kiss for a few long seconds before Dean finally forces himself to move away. Cas's cheeks are flushed and Dean's own heart is pounding swift and fierce in his chest.

"If anything happens," Dean starts.

"I'll take care of Sam," Castiel finishes, stealing the words right out of his mouth.

Dean smiles, gives the other man's fingers a last squeeze, and then swings the car door open. They step out into the fading light.

"Cas," Dean calls over the top of the Impala. Castiel looks up, eyebrows slightly inclined. "Just in case," he says and then tosses the keys to the Impala across to him.

The way Cas instinctively reaches up to snatch them out of the air reminds Dean of that summer when he first taught Jimmy how to play catch. _I'm really gonna miss you_ , he thinks, but he doesn't say it. He doesn't have to.

"Let's get this show on the road," Dean says, striding toward Ruby and Sam.

Ruby gives a nod. They're all silent as she does the summoning ritual and it's like the entire world holds its breath as she finishes, waiting to see what happens next.

Azazel's appearance is almost anti-climatic. One moment the space in front of Dean is empty and the next it’s occupied by a body. Considering how fond Gabriel is of popping in and out of existence, it's not all that impressive. There's still something about this demon, though, that scares Dean. He feels a chill rattle his spine and start to freeze his insides, but he ignores it. He can't afford to show his hand just yet and he definitely can't let on how terrified he is.

"Well, what's this?" Azazel asks, looking around at everyone surrounding him. "Did I just crash a party?"

"Not exactly," Dean says before cutting straight through the bullshit banter. "You lied to me, you bastard."

Azazel raises his eyebrows and holds a hand to his chest. "You wound me, Dean. Such wild accusations and completely unfounded."

"You can't give Sam his soul back," Dean says.

That gets a smirk out of the demon. "Now when did I ever say I'd do that? As I recall, I told you - and I'm quoting myself here - we'd take care of Sam."

"You said you'd fix him."

"No, I said we'd put him back together right. Of course that's a bit . . . subjective."

Dean holds back on the urge to punch Azazel in his smug face but when the demon walks over to Sam and clasps his fingers around the back of his brother's neck, it's all Dean can do not to start shooting and damn the consequences.

"See, little Sammy here's not quite right and we all know it. You think it's because he's missing his soul." Azazel shakes his head. "Such a _human_ response. But down in Hell? We're creative, think outside the box. You'll see what I'm talking about soon."

"Step away from him you son of a bitch," Dean growls.

Azazel just smiles and ignores Dean completely. "We like to take our lemons," he continues, giving Sam a demonstrative little shake, "and make them into lemonade. Sam needs a lot of work, don't get me wrong. But his soul's just going to get in the way of that. Consciences are messy. Emotions? Who even needs 'em? Your brother's better off this way. Or that's my take on the situation. Sorry if that got lost in translation, Dean. Guess I wasn't too specific when we had our little chat, huh?"

There is nothing in the world that Dean wants more than to kill this sadistic fucker. He slides his eyes toward Sam who gives a slight nod.

"You know what? Fuck you," Dean says, pulling the Colt and aiming at the center of Azazel's forehead.

Azazel just laughs. "You realize killing me violates the terms of our deal, right? And there's nothing that can get you out of it."

Dean's stomach drops to his toes but he forces himself to shrug and it's nothing but the truth when he says, "Maybe not, but I'm really gonna love watching you die."

His finger hovers over the trigger and Azazel seems primed and ready to dodge a bullet. It comes a surprise, then, when Sam twists with unnatural speed and drives Ruby's blade up through the demon's chin. It's not enough to kill him, they all know, but it stuns Azazel and keeps him locked to the spot while he reaches up to grip the blade's handle. Sam throws himself out of the way and Dean takes a step forward, holding the Colt steady. He takes aim, levels the barrel at Azazel's chest, and pulls the trigger just as the demon yanks the blade from his skull.

The shot reverberates throughout the quiet clearing and there's a pause as the bullet penetrates the demon's body, everyone tense and wondering if it'll really work. Azazel's eyes bulge in shock and then his body jerks, a red-orange glow pulsing in the cavity of his chest and traveling up his neck to flash in the sockets of his eyes. The demon convulses once, twice, and then the body collapses to the ground, weak and dying tendrils of black smoke slipping from the wound.

No one moves for a long moment and then Ruby strides forward to pick up her knife and stare down at his body.

"Dead," she says.

The relief is so profound Dean's knees shake and then give out completely. He kneels on the ground while Ruby walks over to Sam, says something about how he handled that knife pretty well. This is the lightest Dean can ever remember feeling, the weight of revenge completely lifted from his shoulders. None of the loss is worth it, it never will be, but at least he knows that his parents didn't die for nothing. Sam won't have lived this half-life without Dean doing everything in his power to make it right. And now Azazel can't hurt them anymore. Dean just wishes his dad were here to see it.

"It worked," Cas says as he drops to his knees next to Dean.

"Yeah," Dean says.

He stares at Azazel's body and revels in the satisfaction of having finally done it.

"Do you guys hear that?" Ruby asks.

Dean and Castiel share a look. There's nothing to hear out here other than the scuttling of insects and the rustle of wind through tree leaves. Dean starts to shake his head and then he notices it; there's a low growl coming from somewhere, something low and incessant.

"I don't hear anything," Castiel says at the same time Dean asks, "What is that?"

Ruby stares at him and then turns to Sam. "What do you hear?"

"Nothing," he says, and his eyes dart to Dean.

"What?" Dean asks, but he already thinks he knows the answer.

"Hellhounds," Ruby says just before one of them gives a thunderous bark. "They're early."

Their invisible paws pound at the ground and charge forward. Dean pushes to his feet and pulls Castiel up with him, shouts at him to run.

"No!" Castiel yells back.

Dean shoves at him, adrenaline, fear, and desperation thick and sticky in his mouth.

"Get the fuck _out of here_ ," he shouts. "There's nothing you can do, just _go_."

Cas just digs in his heels and holds on tight to Dean's forearms. He can hear them drawing closer but he doesn't want to look. His gaze is locked with Castiel's and even though the other man looks sick with terror, Dean can't tear his eyes away.

"I don't want to leave you," he says.

He can barely hear his own voice over the barks and snarls drawing closer, but Cas hears him. Dean sees his lips form the words _I know_ seconds before his legs are yanked out from under him. Dean cries out, can't help it, especially not when the beasts get him turned onto his back and claw him open. Pain blooms hot and unbearable across his chest, his stomach, everywhere. Dean doesn't want to scream, doesn't want that to be the last thing Sam and Cas hear from him, but he can’t stop himself.

In the end it doesn't last very long, but Dean has no time to be grateful for it. A few seconds of blinding agony and then he feels teeth dig into his neck, the horrible rending of his throat, and after that . . . nothing.

Nothing but hooks through his hands and shoulders, thighs and feet. No familiar faces anywhere. Just tortured screams and a demon that slithers up close and grins with a gaping, bloody mouth.

"This is gonna be fun," it says.


	20. Act Two - Chapter Eighteen

**xviii.  
** September 30, 1999  
Sioux Falls, SD 

They bury Dean's body outside of Sioux Falls. It's an agreement they come to easily; Lawrence is the obvious choice and the last thing Castiel wants is to make it easy for his brothers to find the vessel they so desperately need but anything else is just too far out. Sam suggests an unmarked grave somewhere hidden, the words clinical and detached but offered like he knows he owes his brother something and cold logic is the only thing he has to offer. Not that Castiel likes the idea of burying Dean at all, let alone in some wooded area where he could be dug up by God only knows what, but Sam's got a point. Besides, Castiel doesn't plan on leaving Dean there very long.

Sam and Ruby do the actual burying, grabbing shovels out of the trunk of the Impala and getting right to work once they've found the perfect spot. Castiel stands off to the side, biting down on his bottom lip so hard he tastes the copper tang of blood on his tongue. It _hurts_. Every single second they're here, Dean's suffering in the Pit. Castiel's never seen it but he's heard the stories. All he has to do is look Ruby dead-on and the story of her time in Hell is etched into every single inch of her skin, twisting her face up into a grotesque parody of who she once was. But that's not the worst part. The worst part is knowing what the plan is for Dean; the expectation for him is a heavy weight around Castiel's neck and his whole body trembles with anger when he thinks of his brothers somewhere salivating, laying in wait, eager to set this thing into motion.

There will be no rush, Castiel knows, and that worries him most of all. Sam isn't ready to accept Lucifer just yet. Even the soulless abomination he is right now hasn't matured enough to be the proper vessel of an archangel. They require strong, fully-grown bodies. Lucifer, in particular, will probably have a list of other needs to be met; he always was a particular and picky son of a bitch. No, they'll be content to leave Dean in the Pit for as long as it takes, pushing him right to the edge of being lost completely before reeling him back here and nudging him toward saying yes to Michael. Castiel remembers how they think because regardless of who he is now, he was still one of them once. He isn't so far removed from his time as an angel to have forgotten these things.

"You're gonna do something stupid, aren't you?" Gabriel says.

His voice is quiet, pitched to sit under the rhythmic sounds of shovels moving through dry earth. When Castiel glances sideways, Gabriel's expression is blank but there's something in his eyes that isn't the pity he's been leveling at Castiel for the last day and a half.

"That depends on your definition of stupid," Castiel says.

"For the purposes of this little exercise," Gabriel says, "let's assume that by "stupid" I mean anything that would involve you going on a one-man mission into Hell to retrieve your wayward Winchester."

Castiel tips his head back to stare up at the canopy of treetops above them and says, "Well, that's the plan."

"Yeah? You and what army?" Gabriel asks, a bite to his voice.

"I just need to find my grace," Castiel says.

As if it'll be that simple. If Gabriel helps, which Castiel knows he may not, that should make the task an easier one but it's still not going to happen overnight. Castiel's working on the assumption that his Grace is near Pontiac, Illinois; that was where everything happened in the first place - where Sam died and Castiel fell. It's as good a place to start looking as any, but that's not how an angel's grace works and Castiel was ripped from his in a process that he can only assume was even more traumatic than most. It could be literally anywhere in the world but Castiel will do everything he has to in order to find it.

"You can't do that," Gabriel says.

Castiel meets Gabriel's gaze and is surprised by the vehemence there. Gabriel's mouth is set in anger and his hands are balled into fists at his sides. 

"I have to," Castiel says.

"You fucking humans," Gabriel says in a tone so derisive Castiel wants to flinch. "Maybe if you all weren't so willing to kill yourselves for each other we wouldn't be in this situation in the first place."

"I can't just _leave_ him there."

"Or, here's a crazy thought, you _can_ ," Gabriel shoots back. "The kid'll be fine. He'll come back, maybe get a few more years to enjoy the wonders of the world before Michael asks to wear him to the prom, and then it'll all be over. He'll go to Heaven a hero, get his own little slice of paradise, our brothers will finally work their shit out . . . it's a win-win, man."

Castiel can only stare at him. "You really don't get it."

"Then explain it to me because it looks pretty simple from where I'm standing."

There's no real way to put it into words, not without drifting off into territory that Castiel's not sure he's comfortable with. Dean always called them chick-flick moments which Castiel thought was stupid; Dean practically broke out in hives whenever he came close to expressing his feelings. It's personal, though - deeply so. How can Castiel possible explain it in words that don't sound cheesy or overwrought? And even if he does, even if he makes himself vulnerable, it's not as if his brother will really understand. Castiel thinks there's no one on earth or in Heaven who could.

Castiel stares at the deepening grave several feet away and feels his heart wrench in his chest. It doesn't matter that it's not forever; knowing that Dean's dead right now, that he'll be smothered under six feet of dirt, still feels like pouring acid into a salt-soaked wound.

"If you told me right now that I could go in his place, I'd do it," Castiel finally says. "I'd fall all over again. Every time." 

Gabriel's quiet for a long moment.

"You're right," he says. "I don't get it."

In the end, though, it's not like he has to. It's not even like Castiel expects him to. But Castiel isn't changing his mind. He's come this far for Dean already; he'd rather die than quit now.

_._

They search for two weeks. Sam puts himself on research detail because he knows it's something he's good at. He also has an unhealthy amount of knowledge of angels which means he knows what they should be keeping an eye out for. There are barely any leads for them to follow, everything turning up as a dead-end. There's not a sign of his grace anywhere, not even a trace of it for Castiel to sense. They're halfway to Texas when Gabriel blows out a deep sigh.

"Pull over," he says.

"If it annoys you that much, you don't have to drive with us," Castiel points out.

"That's not it. I need you to pull over now."

There's something in his voice, some gravity that's usually missing, that prompts Castiel to do as he's told. They pull onto the shoulder and he barely has time to put the car in park before Gabriel's got two fingers pressed to his forehead and they're in an unfamiliar room. The motif is distinctly Middle Eastern - Indian to be exact. There's something decadent about it all, from the beautifully crafted rugs to the solid gold decorations. It's not exactly tasteful, but Castiel feels like this level of opulence is appropriate somehow.

He understands why when a beautiful, Indian woman emerges from an adjoining room. The clothes she wears are plainer than her decorative choices would have indicated - they're practically sedate in comparison - but she wears them well. She moves with a sinuous kind of grace that most humans can't manage even when trying and she's so powerful even Castiel can sense it pouring off of her in waves. He recognizes her for the goddess she is and feels a tiny thrill of apprehension. Angels and pagan deities never mix well.

"Loki," she says. "This is a surprise."

Her tone is carefully measured but Castiel detects a certain amount of fondness tucked inside of it. From the way Gabriel smiles, without most of the caustic humor he usually favors, Castiel wonders just what kind of relationship they have.

"I need your help, Kali," he says. "You have something I need."

"Is that so?" she asks. Her eyes slide over Castiel. "And what have you brought me in exchange?"

"My neverending gratitude and a multitude of favors to be called in at your will. Sexual favors, even," he says with a wiggle of his eyebrows.

"Try again."

She crosses her arms over her chest and Gabriel deflates, all of his cockiness leaving him in an almost palpable whoosh.

"I'll make it up to you, I promise," he says. "But this is important."

Castiel still isn't sure what he's doing here but he has a feeling Kali's starting to understand. At the very least, there's something hovering in her eyes that looks like realization.

She tips her chin up and says, "Promises from the trickster god? How stupid do you think I am?"

"Kali," Gabriel says. "Don't make me beg."

Kali's eyes narrow speculatively. After a moment she says, "What do you need?"

"I gave you something once. Asked you to keep it safe for me. I need that back."

Kali's lips press flat but her arms fall to her sides and she doesn't ask any more questions. Instead she walks over to an ornate box that holds pride of place among her many baubles and trinkets. She flicks the clasp and opens the lid with reverent fingers. Castiel can see something glowing from inside the silk lining and feels a pulse of recognition in his chest that only grows stronger when she pulls the pendant out. Its shape is disguised by its contents, the shine of which obscure any details of the trinket in her hands. None of that even matters. That's Castiel's grace; he knows it as surely as he knows his own name.

She strides across the room and hands it to Gabriel without once looking down at what she holds in her hands.

"I don't want to know what this is for," she tells him. "There's something that needs tending to in the other room. You should be gone when I get back."

There's a pause before she leaves, heavy with things that she doesn't say. Castiel doesn't understand it, at least not until Kali brushes a hand over Gabriel's shoulder and walks out without looking back. Gabriel's expression is some cross between yearning and tortured but he schools it into something more neutral when he turns to Castiel.

"I found this," he says. "Thought maybe it might be useful some day."

Castiel gapes at him but it's difficult to feel angry with his grace so close. "You've had it all this time?"

"Once you do this," Gabriel says, "you can't go back. They'll be able to track you. They'll get their hands on you and kill you. Or worse. And you'll never feel the way you do right now again. If you get Dean back, it'll be different."

These aren't things Castiel hasn't thought about himself, but he doesn't have time to be selfish. Dean needs him and if this is what it takes to get him back, Castiel's more than willing to go through with it. He holds his hand out and shivers when Gabriel passes his grace over. It heats his palms and seems to glow a little brighter in anticipation. 

"Castiel, you don't have to do this."

"You know that's not true," Castiel says. He looks up at Gabriel then and swallows hard. "I'm going alone," he says. Gabriel opens his mouth but Castiel cuts him off. "You have to stay here. I need someone to keep an eye on Sam. I promised I'd take care of him. And you'll have to take his soul into your grace. If something happens to me . . . you'll know what to do with it. I trust you."

There are a million things Gabriel could say. He could tell Castiel again how stupid this is, he could mutter about it being a suicide mission. Instead he nods, just once, and says, "Good luck."

It's exactly what Castiel needs to hear. He takes a deep breath and throws the glass pendant to the ground. It barely makes a sound when it shatters, but the entire room is blanketed in light. Funny that the last thing Castiel will remember about being human is the hollow, empty ache Dean left behind and the fierce, hungry love Castiel's felt for him for a lifetime. It's enough. If Castiel can at least remember, can keep some shadow of feeling, it'll be enough.

He closes his eyes and breathes in.


	21. Epilogue

**Four Months Later**

There are still a few weeks of summer left and the weather seems determined to make the most of them. From its perch in the sky, the sun casts heat over the wooded area hidden off the main road. There's no evidence left of the rain from the evening before, all lingering puddles of water having been burned off before noon. There's not a cloud in the sky to offer relief from the sunshine and even the wind is lazy with its sporadic, half-hearted gusts.

The animals that used to frequent this copse of woods are gone now, some combination of the heat and the ground-shaking event that took place before daylight. Any trees that critters might have called home or used for cover have been leveled. There's not much left outside of flattened grass. There's not much life around, either, aside from the buzzing cicadas and a handful of singing birds who've taken perch in the few trees left.

There's certainly no one around for miles when a man appears in the clearing and promptly falls to his knees. He's dressed casually - just jeans and a t-shirt - but he looks out of place and somewhat worse for wear. His hair sticks up at odd angles and his hands shake as he presses them to his thighs. There's sweat on his brow and the back of his neck and the breath that shudders out of him trembles like so many blades of grass in a storm. He doesn't say a word, just keeps his eyes glued to the crude cross someone planted in the ground months ago. 

It feels like hours that the man kneels there, an element of the strange passage of time that nature has. There's not a single sign of what he might be waiting for until the earth in front of him starts to shift and move. The man perks up, rising up onto his knees, eyes trained on the shifting dirt. A few moments later the ground gives way, first to fingertips and then to two hands that push up and out. The man reaches out to grip those grasping fingers and pulls, rising to his feet so he can lift a body from the widening hole in the earth. This man, the one who emerges covered in dirt, inhales loud and ragged.

The other man reaches out and swipes his fingers over muddy lips and a dusty nose. When he speaks it's just one word but his voice is a low rasp that holds too much in its depths for any one person or thing to be able to decipher.

"Dean."

The other man coughs and opens his eyes. They glimmer in the sunlight, green as moss and completely unguarded. There's something like adoration in that gaze when it falls on the man in front of him, and no small amount of pure, unfathomable love etched into every one of his features.

"Cas. You found me."

Cas smiles at that. 

"Well," he says, "It was my turn to take care of you."

**Author's Note:**

> RE: the warnings - The dub-con is fairly mild and involves Dean getting in a little over his head with a girl. He feels weird about the situation but doesn't linger on it after it's over. The major character death is largely temporary barring John Winchester, who is dead dead dead. The torture happens off-screen and to a non-major character (Ruby), but the implications of how bad it was are there. The ableist and sexist language is canon-typical but, hopefully, not as prevalent as it is in canon. If I've forgotten to tag for anything, especially anything triggery, please let me know and I'll fix it right away! 
> 
> More comprehensive notes can be found [here](http://among-the-wreck.livejournal.com/tag/notes) but I need to reiterate my thanks to Rae (we may not talk anymore but this wouldn't exist without her) and Katie, who is as beautiful as ever and was an integral part of finishing this fic.
> 
> And, of course, endless thanks and love to moodilylit, whose art enhanced this fic beyond anything I could've imagined. Without the images contained within, it's just a bunch of words. Moodilylit truly helped bring this to life in a way I couldn't on my own.
> 
> The full art post can be found [here](http://among-the-wreck.livejournal.com/?skip=3&tag=art) along with wallpapers, a fanmix, and moodilylit's own notes about the process. Check it out and don't forget to leave love when you do!


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